No.  I. 


MODERN  STANDARD  DRAMA. 


IN  FIVE 
BY  THOxMAS  NOOK  TALFOURD. 

WITH  THE  STAGE  BUSINESS,  CAST  OF  CHARAC- 
TERS, COSTUMES,  RELATIVE  POSITIONS,  ETC. 


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L  Ton 

2.  Faiio. 

3.  The  Lady  of  Lyons. 

4.  Richelieu. 
6.  The  Wife. 

6.  The  Honey  Moon. 

7.  The  School  for  Scan- 
dal. 

8.  Money. 

With  a  Portrait  and 
Memoir  of  Mrs.  A.  C. 
MOW  ATT. 


9.  The  Stranger. 

10.  Grandfather  White- 
head. 

11.  Richard  HI. 

12.  Love's  Sacrifice. 
18.  The  Gamester. 

14.  A  Cure  for  the  Heart- 
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16.  The  Hunchback. 

16.  Don  Omar  DeBazan. 
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KMAN. 

vol  m. 

17.  The  Poor  Gentleman. 

18.  Hamlet. 

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20.  Venice  Preserved. 

21.  Piaarro. 

22.  The  Love-Chase. 

23.  Othello. 

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BURTON. 

TOL.  IT. 

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27.  London  Assurance. 

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80.  The  Jealous  Wife. 

81.  The  Rivals. 
32.  Perfection. 

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EACKETT. 


VOL  V. 

33.  A  New  Way   to  Pay 

Old  Debts. 

34.  Look  Before  You  Leap. 

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36.  The  Nervous  Man. 

37.  Damon  and  Pythias. 

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39.  William  Tell. 

40.  The  Day    after  the 
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TOL.  TI 

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45.  The  Bridal. 

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47.  The  Iron  Chest. 

48.  Faint    Heart  Never 
Won  Fair  Lady. 

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Memoir  of  Sir  E.  BUL- 
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49.  Road  to  Ruin. 

60.  Macbeth. 

61.  Temper. 

62.  Evadne. 
68.  Bertram. 

64.  The  Duenna. 

66.  Much     Ado  About 

Nothing. 
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62.  Old  Heads  and  Young 
Hearts. 

63.  Mountaineers. 

64.  Three    Weeks  After 
Marriage. 

With  a  Portrait  and 
Memoir  of  Mr.  GEO.  B. 
BARRETT. 


57 


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65.  Love. 

66.  Ah  You  Like  it. 

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68.  Werner. 

69.  Gisippus. 

70.  Town  and  Country. 

71.  King  Lear. 

72.  Blue  Devils. 

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74  Married  and  Single 

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77  Guy  Mannering 

78  Sweethearts  &  Wives 

79  The  Serious  Family 

80  She  Stoops  to  Conquer 
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81  Julius  Caesar 

82  Vicar  of  Wakefield 

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8S  George  Barnwell 

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90  Sketches  in  India 

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ness. 

95  Writing  on  the  Wall 

96  Heir  at  Law 

With  a  Portrait  and 
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HAMBLIN. 

vol  nn 

97  The  Soldier's  Daughter 

98  Douglas 

99  Marco  Spada 

100  Nature's  Nobleman 

101  Sar da na pains 

102  Civilisation 

103  The  Robbers 

104  Katharine  &  Petrucio 
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REST. 


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Jojf\TL 


EDITORIAL  INTRODUCTION. 


lVi£  Tragedy  of  Ion  was  first  publicly  produced  at  ths 
Coven*  Garden  Theatre,  on  the  night  of  Mr.  Macready's 
benefit,  26th  of  May,  1836.  It  had  been  printed,  and 
privately  circulated,  some  months  before,  but  it  was  not 
until  a  London  audience  had  given  it  the  stamp  of  their 
approbation,  that  an  edition,  large  enough  to  supply  the 
demand  of  the  public,  was  issued. 

The  success  of  this  piece  in  the  representation  was  as 
decided  as  it  was  remarkable  and  unexpected.  That  a 
play  so  strictly  classical  in  its  construction  and  language, 
so  pervaded  by  the  spirit  of  the  mythology  of  ancient 
Greece,  and  so  destitute  of  those  melo-dramatic  coups  de 
theatre,  which  are  usually  considered  necessary  in  order 
to  "bring  down  the  house" — that  such  a  play  should  not 
only  charm  the  scholar  and  the  man  of  letters  in  the 
closet,  but  attract,  night  after  night,  large  popular  audi- 
ences, in  the  representation,  might  well  have  been  a  mat- 
.er  of  surprise  to  the  author  and  his  friends 

Not  only  in  England  but  in  the  United  States,  "  Ion" 
continues  to  be  one  of  the  most  attractive  c<f  stock  plays. 
It  was  feared  by  those,  who  read  the  piece  previous  to  its 
performance,  that  the  character  and  missio  1  of  the  "  de- 


vi 

voted"  hero  were  such  as  to  place  him  out  of  the  pale  of 

the  sympathies  of  a  modern  popular  audience  •  but  it  is  a 
great  triumph  of  the  author's  genius,  that  notwithstanding 
the  formidable  obstacles  with  which  he  has  to  contend,  he 
has  placed  his  tragedy  prosperously  upon  the  modern 
stage,  so  that  it  ranks  not  only  among  the  most  beautiful 
closet  dramas,  but  the  most  successful  acting  plays  in  the 
English  language. 

"  The  title  of  Ion,"  says  Mr.  Talfourd,  "  is  borrowed 
from  the  Tragedy  of  Euripides,  which  gave  the  first  hint 
of  the  situation  in  which  its  hero  is  introduced — that  of 
a  foundling  youth  educated  in  a  temple  and  assisting  in 
its  services ;  but  otherwise  there  is  no  resemblance  be- 
tween this  imperfect  sketch  and  that  exquisite  picture." 

Of  Macready's  impersonation  of  the  hero,  the  author 
says:  "It  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  triumphs  of 
art,  which  has  graced  the  stage  of  late  years.  Although 
other  of  his  performances  are  abstractedly  greater,  none 
I  believe  approach  this  as  an  effort  of  art,  estimated  with 
reference  to  the  nature  of  the  materials  which  he  anima- 
ted, to  the  difficulties  which  he  subdued,  and  to  the  pre- 
conceptions which  he  charmed  away.  By  the  graces  of 
beautiful  elocution,  he  beguiled  the  audience  to  receive 
the  drama  as  belonging  to  a  range  of  associations  which 
are  no  longer  linked  with  the  living  world,  but  which 
retain  an  undying  interest  of  a  gentler  cast,  as  a  thing 
which  might  have  been  .  and  then  by  his  fearful  power 
of  making  the  fantastic  real,  he  gradually  rendered  the 
whole  possible — probable — true!  The  consequence  of 
this  extraordinary  power  of  vivifying  the  frigid,  and 
familiarising  the  remote,  was  to  dissipate  the  fears  of  my 
friends ;  to  render  the  play  an  object  of  attraction  during 
the  short  remainder  of  the  season;  and  to  embolden 
Others  to  attempt  the  part,  and  encourage  other  audiences 


vii 


lo  approve  it,  even  when  the  power  which  first  ga^te  it 
sanction  was  wanting." 

In  regard  to  Miss  Ellen  Tree,  who,  in  this  country, 
"  illustrated  the  hero,  and  made  the  stoiy  of  his  sufferings 
and  his  virtues  familiar  to  transatlantic  cars,"  Mr.  Talfourd 
says :  "  Who  is  there  who  does  not  feel  proud  of  the  just 
appreciation,  by  the  great  American  people,  of  one  who 
is  not  only  the  exquisite  representative  of  a  range  of  de- 
lightful characters,  but  of  all  that  is  most  graceful  and 
refined  in  English  womanhood, — or  fail  to  cherish  a  wish 
for  her  fame  and  happiness,  as  if  she  were  a  particular 
friend  or  relation  of  his  own  V9 

The  moral  tone  of  this  exquisite  play  is  throughout 
vigourous  and  healthy.  The  strong  anti-monarchical  prin- 
ciples, which  it  inculcates,  are  manifest  on  every  page ; 
and  should  contribute  largely  to  its  popularity  in  republi- 
can America.  The  characters  of  Ion  and  Adrastus  are 
pourtrayed  and  contrasted  with  a  master  hand ;  and  the 
subordinate  persons  of  the  drama  are  all  skilfully  indivi- 
dualized. Indeed,  the  play  promises  long  to  retain  its 
high  place  among  the  most  admired  and  perfect  specimens 
of  the  British  drama. 


CAST    OF  CHARACTERS. 


Original  Cost  at  Co 


vent  Garden.  Hat/market,  1*32.  1  erfr,  1815. 

Ton,  a  Foundling1  ...  Mr.  Macready.  Miss  Ellon  Tree.  Mr*,  digs.  Rean. 

Adrastus   u    Dale.  Mr.  Vandeiihoff.  Mr.  Charles  Keai. 

Medon,  High  Priest,  "  "    Selby.  "  Barry. 

Cttsiphon   "    H.  Wallack.  "    Bennett.  "  Dyott. 

Cassander   "    Howard.  •'    Russell.  "    S.  Pearson. 

Agenor  J   "    Prilcliard.  "    Haines.  M  Bland. 

Cleon   "    Tilbury.  "    Gough.  "  Vachc. 

Phocion   "    G.  Bennett.  "    James  Vining.  "  Crocker. 

Timocles   "    Harris.  "    Gallot.  "    M-  Douall. 

Crythes  ....   "    C.Hill.  "    Worrell.  "  Gourlay. 

Soldier   "  Gallot. 

First  Priest   "  King. 

Second  Priest   "  Heath. 

Irus   Miss  Lane.  Miss  E.  Phillips.  31  rs.  Knight. 

Clemantlie  . .  "     Ellen  Tree.  "     Miss  Taylor.  Miss  Crocker. 

Abra   "     Lacy.  Mrs.  Burrows 


COSTUMES. 

ION. — Grecian  shirt  and  toga  edged  with  Grecian  border,  fleshiugs  and  sandals 
Second  dress:  Same  as  Adrastus. 

ADRASTUS.— Grecian  shirt,  gold  breast-plate  aad  lamberkins,  fleshings,  sandals, 
regal  robes,  and  crown. 

MEDON. — White  surplice,  white  robes  of  toga  form,  gold  bauds,  vitta  round  head 
with  white  ribbons,  fleshings  and  sandals. 

CTESITHON. — Grecian  shirt,  lamberkins,  breast-plate,  helmet,  fleshings  and  san- 
dals. 

CRYTHES.— Same  as  Ctesiphon.  f 
PHOCION. — Grecian  shirt,  white  toga,  fleshings,  and  sandals. 
CASSANDER. — Same  as  Phocion. 

AGENOR. — White  surplice,  white  robes,  fleshings,  and  sandals — like  a  Priest  ci 
Apollo. 

CLEON  and  TIMOCLES. — Same  as  Agenor. 
IRUS. — Grecian  white  shirt,  fleshings  and  sandals. 

SOLDIERS. — Grecian  shirts,  breast-plates,  lamberkins,  helmets,  fleshings,  and  aan 
dais. 

CLEMANTHE. — White  and  gold  Grecian  head-dress,  white  dress  and  ribands. 
ABRA. — Plain  Grecian  dress. 

Priests,  Soldiers,  fyc. 

Scene,  Akgos — The  time  of  the  Action  is  comprised  ;n  one  day  and  night, 
and  the  following  morning. 


EXITS  AND  ENTRANCES. 
R.  means  Right ;    L.  Left:   R.  D.  Right  Door;  L.  D.  Left  Door , 
S.  E.  Second  Entrance;  U.  E.  Upper  Entrance ;  M.  D.  Middle  Door 

1  RELATIVE  POSITIONS. 

R.,  means  Right;  L.,  Left;  C,  Centre  ;  R.  C,  Right  of  Centre; 
L.  C,  Left  of  Centre. 

\JL  Passages  marked  with  Inverted  Comma*,  are  usually  omitted  in  the 

representation. 


ION. 

21  Srageirg 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. —  The  Interior  of  the  Templt  of  Apollo,  which 
is  supposed  to  be  placed  on  a  rocky  eminence  -  —Early  morn- 
ing.—  The  interior  lighted  by  a  single  lamp  suspended  from 
the  roof. — Agenor  resting  against  a  column,  R. — Irus  seated 
on  a  bench  at  the  side  of  the  scene,  l. 

Agenor  comes  forward  and  speaks,  c. 

Agenor.  Will  the  dawn  never  visit  us  !    These  hoirrg 
Toil  heavy  with  the  unresting  curse  they  bear 
To  do  the  work  of  desolating  years  ! 
All  distant  sounds  are  hush'd  ; — the  shriek  of  death 
And  the  survivors'  wail  are  now  unheard, 
As  grief  had  worn  itself  to  patience.    Irus  ! 
I'm  loth  so  soon  to  break  thy  scanty  rest, 
But  my  heart  sickens  for  the  tardy  morn  ; 
Sure  it  is  breaking  ;  speed  and  look — yet  hold — 
Know'st  thou  the  fearful  shelf  of  rock  that  hangs 
Above  the  encroaching  waves,  the  loftiest  point 
That  stretches  eastward  ] 

Irus.  Know  it  1    Yes,  my  lord  ; 
There  often  have  I  bless'd  the  opening  day, 
Which  thy  free  kindness  gave  me  leave  to  waste 
In  happy  wandering  through  the  forests. 


12 


ON. 


(ACT  I. 


Agen.  Well, 
Thou  art  not  then  afraid  1o  tread  it ;  theie 
The  earliest  streak  from  the  unrisen  sun 
Is  to  be  welcomed ;  tell  me  how  it  gleams, 
In  bloody  portent,  or  in  saffron  hope, 
And  hasten  back  to  slumber. 

Irus.  I  shall  hasten  ; 
Believe  not  that  thy  summons  broke  my  rest 
I  was  not  sleeping.  [Exit,  L. 

Agen.  Heaven  be  with  thee,  child  ! 
His  grateful  mention  of  delights  bestow'd 
On  that  most  piteous  state  of  servile  childhood 
By  liberal  words  chance-dropp'd,  hath  touch'd  a  vein 
Of  feeling  which  I  deem'd  forever  numb'd, 
And,  by  a  gush  of  household  memories,  breaks 
The  icy  casing  of  that  thick  despair 
Which  day  by  day  hath  gather'd  o'er  my  heart, 
While,  basely  safe,  within  this  column'd  circle, 
Uplifted  far  into  the  purer  air, 
And  by  Apollo's  partial  love  secured, 
I  have,  in  spirit,  glided  with  the  Plague, 
As  in  foul  darkness  or  in  sickliest  light 
It  wafted  death  through  Argos  :  and  mine  ears* 
Listening  athirst  for  any  human  sound, 
Have  caught  the  dismal  cry  of  confused  pain, 
Which  to  this  dizzy  height  the  fitful  wind 
Hath  borne  from  each  sad  quarter  of  the  vale 
Where  life  was. 

Re-enter  Irus,  l. 

Are  there  signs  of  day-break  1 

Irus.  None ; 
The  eastern  sky  is  still  unbroken  gloom. 

Agen.  It  cannot  surely  be.    Thine  eyes  aie  dioi 
(No  fault  of  thine)  for  want  of  rest,  or  now 
I  look  upon  them  near,  with  scalding  tears. 
Hath  care  alighted  on  a  head  so  young ! 
What  grief  hast  thou  been  weeping  1 

Irus.  Pardon  me  ; 

never  thought  at  such  a  mournful  time 
To  plead  my  humble  sorrow  in  excuse 


SCEITC  I.j 


ION. 


13 


Of  poorly-rendered  service  :  but  my  brother — 

Thou  may'st  have  noted  him, — a  sturdy  lad, 

With  eye  so  merry  and  with  foot  so  light 

That  none  could  chide  his  gamesomeness — fell  sick 

But  yesterday,  and  died  in  my  weak  arms 

Ere  I  could  seek  for  stouter  aid  ;  I  hoped 

That  I  had  taught  my  grief  to  veil  its  signs 

From  thy  observant  care  ;  but  when  I  stood 

Upon  the  well-known  terrace  where  we  loved, 

Arm  link'd  in  arm,  to  watch  the  gleaming  sails — 

His  favourite  pastime,  for  he  burn'd  to  share 

A  seaman's  hardy  lot — my  tears  would  flow, 

And  I  forgot  to  dry  them.    But  I  see 

Cleon  is  walking  yonder  ;  let  me  call  him  ; 

For  sure  'twill  cheer  thy  heart  to  speak  with  him. 

Agen.  Call  him,  good  youth,  and  then  go  in  to  sleep, 
Or,  if  thou  wilt,  go  weep.  [Exit  Irus,  l. 

I  envy  thee 
The  privilege,  but  Jupiter  forefend 
That  I  should  rob  thee  of  it ! 

Enter  Cleon,  l. 

Cleon.  Hail,  Agenor ! 
Dark  as  our  lot  remains,  'tis  comfort  yet 
To  find  thy  age  unstricken. 

Agen.  B  ather  mourn 
That  I  am  destined  still  to  linger  here, 
In  strange  unnatural  strength,  while  death  is  round  me, 
I  chide  these  sinews  that  are  framed  so  tough 
Grief  cannot  palsy  them  ;  I  chide  the  air 
Which  round  this  citadel  of  nature  breathes 
With  sweetness  not  of  this  world  ;  I  would  share 
The  common  grave  of  my  dear  countrymen, 
And  sink  to  rest,  while  all  familiar  things 
Old  custom  has  endeared  are  failing  with  me, 
Rather  than  shiver  on  in  life  behind  them. 
<ror  should  these  walls  detain  me  from  the  paths 
vVhere  death  may  be  embraced,  but  that  my  word, 
In  a  rash  moment  plighted  to  our  host, 
Forbids  me  to  depart  without  his  license, 
Which  firmly  he  refuses. 


14 


ION 


f  Act  I 


Cleon.  Do  not  chid  3  me, 
If  I  rejoice  to  find  the  generous  Piiest 
Means,  with  Apollo's  blessing,  to  preserve 
The  treasure  of  try  wisdom ; — nay,  he  trusts  not 
To  promises  alone ;  his  gates  are  barr'd 
Against  thy  egress  : — none,  indeed,  may  pass  thein, 
Save  the  youth  Ion,  to  whose  earnest  prayer 
His  foster-father  grants  reluctant  leave 
To  visit  the  sad  city  at  his  will : 
And  freely  does  he  use  the  dangerous  boon, 
Which,  in  my  thought,  the  love  that  cherish'd  him, 
Since  he  was  found  within  the  sacred  grove 
Smiling  amidst  the  storm,  a  most  rare  infant, 
Should  have  had  sternness  to  deny. 

Agen.    What,  Ion, 
The  only  inmate  of  this  fane,  allow'd 
To  seek  the  mournful  walks  where  death  is  busy  !— - 
Ion,  our  sometime  darling,  whom  we  prized 
As  a  stray  gift,  by  bounteous  Heaven  dismiss'd 
From  some  bright  sphere  which  sorrow  may  not  aloud, 
To  make  the  happy  happier  ]    Is  he  sent 
To  grapple  with  the  miseries  of  this  time, 
Whose  nature  such  ethereal  aspect  wears 
As  it  would  perish  at  the  touch  of  wrong  ] 
By  no  internal  contest  ^s  he  trained 
For  such  hard  duty  ;  no  emotions  rude 
Have  his  clear  spirit  vanquish'd ; — Love,  the  germ 
Of  his  mild  nature,  hath  spread  graces  forth, 
Expanding  with  its  progress,  as  the  store 
Of  rainbow  colour  which  the  seed  conceals 
Sheds  out  its  tints  from  its  dim  treasury, 
To  flush  and  circle  in  the  flower.    No  tear 
Hath  fill'd  his  eye  save  that  of  thoughtful  joy, 
When,  in  the  evening  stillness,  lovely  things 
Press'd  on  his  soul  too  busily  ;  his  voice, 
If  in  the  earnestness  of  childish  sports, 
Raised  to  the  tone  of  anger,  check'd  its  force, 
As  if  it  fear'd  to  break  its  being's  law, 
And  falter' d  into  music  :  when  the  forms 
Of  guilty  passior  hive  been  made  to  live 
In  pictured  speeca  and  others  have  wjixM  loud 


6CEITE  I  I 


ION. 


15 


In  righteous  h.dignation,  he  hath  heard 
With  sceptic  smile,  or  from  some  slender  vein 
Of  goodness,  which  surrounding  gloom  conceal'd 
Struck  sunlight  o'er  it :  so  his  life  hath  flow'd 
From  its  mysterious  urn  a  sacred  stream, 
In  whose  calm  depth  the  beautiful  and  pure 
Alone  are  mirror'd ;  which,  though  shapes  of  ill 
May  hover  round  its  surface,  glides  in  light, 
And  takes  no  shadow  from  them. 

Cleon.  Yet,  methinks. 
Thou  hast  not  lately  met  him,  or  a  change 
Pass'd  strangely  on  him  had  not  miss'd  thy  wonder. 
His  form  appears  dilated ;  in  those  eyes, 
Where  pleasure  danced,  a  thoughtful  sadness  dwells ; 
Stern  purpose  knits  the  forehead,  which  till  now 
Knew  not  the  passing  wrinkle  of  a  care ; 
Those  limbs  which  in  their  heedless  motion  own'd 
A  stripling's  playful  happiness,  are  strong 
As  if  the  iron  hardships  of  the  camp 
Had  given  them  sturdy  nurture  ;  and  his  step, 
Its  airiness  of  yesterday  forgotten, 
Awakes  the  echoes  of  these  desolate  courts, 
As  if  a  hero  of  gigantic  mould 
Paced  them  in  armour. 

Agen  Hope  is  in  thy  tale. 
This  is  no  freak  of  Nature's  wayward  course, 
But  work  of  pitying  Heaven;  for  not  in  vain 
The  gods  have  pour'd  into  that  guileless  heart 
The  strengths  that  nerve  the  hero ; — they  are  ours. 

Cleon.  How  can  he  aid  us  1  Can  he  stay  the  pulse 
Of  ebbing  life, — arrest  the  infected  winds, 
Or  smite  the  hungry  spectre  of  the  grave  1 

Agen.  And  dost  thou  think  these  breezes  are  our  foes,— 
The  innocent  airs  that  used  to  dance  around  us, 
As  if  they  felt  the  blessings  they  convey'd, 
<V  that  the  death  they  bear  is  casual]  No! 
'Tis  human  guilt  that  blackens  in  the  cloud, 
Flashes  athwart  its  mass  in  jagged  fire, 
Whiils  in  the  hurricane,  pollutes  the  air, 
Turns  all  the  joyous  melodies  of  earth 
To  murmurings  of  doom.    There  is  a  foe, 


16 


ION 


(Act  i 


Who  in  the  glorious  summit  of  tl  e  sttte 
Draws  down  the  great  resentment  of  the  gods, 
Whom  he  defies  to  strike  us ; — yet  his  power 
Partakes  that  just  infirmity  which  Nature 
Blends  in  the  empire  of  her  proudest  sons — 
That  it  is  cased  within  a  single  breast, 
And  may  be  pluck'd  thence  by  a  single  arm, 
Let  but  that  arm,  selected  by  the  gods, 
Do  its  great  office  on  the  tyrant's  life, 
And  Arffos  breathes  again  ! 

Clcon.  A  footstep  ! — hush  ! 
Thy  wishes,  falling  on  a  slavish  ear, 
Would  tempt  another  outrage  :  'tis  a  friend — 
An  honest  though  a  crabbed  one — Ximocles  : 
Something  hath  ruffled  him.    Good  day,  Timocles  ! 

[Timocles  passes  in  front. 

He  will  not  speak  to  us. 

Agen.  But  he  shall  speak. 
Timocles — nay  then,  thus  I  must  enforce  thee !  [Stayinghim 
Sure  thou  wilt  not  refuse  a  comrade's  hand, 
That  may  be  cold  ere  sunset. 

Tim.  ( 'giving  his  hand.)    Thou  may'st  school  me; 
Thy  years  and  love  have  license  ;  but  I  own  not 
A  stripling's  mastery;  is't  fit,  Agenor  1 

Agen.  Nay,  thou  must  tell  thy  wrong:  whate'er  it  prove, 
I  hail  thy  anger  as  a  hopeful  sign, 
For  it  revives  the  thought  of  household  days, 
When  the  small  bickerings  of  friends  had  space 
To  fret,  and  Death  was  not  forever  nigh 
To  frown  upon  Estrangement.    What  has  moved  thee? 

Tim.  I  blush  to  tell  it.    Weary  of  the  night 
And  of  my  life,  I  sought  the  western  portal : 
It  opened,  when  ascending  from  the  stair 
That  through  the  rock  winds  spiral  from  the  town, 
Ion,  the  foundling  cherish'd  by  the  Priest, 
Stood  in  the  entrance  :  with  such  mild  command 
As  he  has  often  smilingly  obey'd, 
I  bade  him  stand  aside  and  let  me  pass  ; 
When — wouldst  thou  think  it] — in  determined  speech, 
He  gave  me  counsel  to  return  ;  I  press'd 
L  inpatient  onward  :  he,  with  honey'd  phrase 


Scene  I.] 


ION. 


His  daring  act  excusing,  grasped  my  arm 
With  strength  resistless ;  led  me  from  the  gate 
Replaced  its  ponderous  bars  ;  and,  with  a  look 
As  modest  as  he  wore  in  childhood,  left  me. 

Agcn.  And  thou  wilt  thank  him  for  it  soon  :  he  cor  ea — 
Now  hold  thy  angry  purpose,  if  thou  can'st ! 

Enter  Ion,  l. 

Ion.    I  seek  thee,  good  Timocles,  to  implore 
Again  thy  pardon.    I  am  young  in  trust, 
And  fear,  lest,  in  the  earnestness  of  love, 
I  stayed  thy  course  too  rudely.    Thou  hast  borne 
My  cliildish  folly  often, — do  not  frown 
If  I  have  ventured  with  unmanner'd  zeal 
To  guard  the  ripe  experiences  of  years 
From  one  rash  moment's  danger. 

Tim,.    Leave  thy  care. 
If  I  am  weary  of  the  flutterer  life, 
Is  mortal  bidding  thus  to  cage  it  in  % 

Ion  ( crosses  c  J.  And  art  thou  tired  of  being?  Has  the  grave 
No  terrors  for  thee  %  Hast  thou  sunder'd  quite 
Those  thousand  meshes  which  old  custom  weaves 
To  bind  us  earthward,  and  gay  fancy  films 
With  airy  lustre  various  %    Hast  subdued 
Those  cleavings  of  the  spirit  to  its  prison, 
Those  nice  regards,  dear  habits,  pensive  memories, 
That  change  the  valour  of  the  thoughtful  breast 
To  brave  dissimulation  of  its  fears  ] 
Is  Hope  quench'd  in  thy  bosom  %    Thou  art  free, 
And  in  the  simple  dignity  of  man 
Standest  apart  untempted  ;— do  not  lose 
The  great  occasion  thou  hast  pluck'd  from  misery. 
Nor  play  the  spendthrift  with  a  great  despair, 
But  use  it  nobly  ! 

Tim.  What,  to  strike  ]  to  slay 

Ion.  No ! — not  unless  the  audible  voice  of  Hestfen 
Call  thee  to  that  dire  office  ;  but  to  shed 
On  ears  abused  by  falsehood,  truths  of  power 
In  words  immortal, — not  such  words  as  flash 
From  the  fierce  demagogue's  unthinking  rage 
To  madden  for  a  moment  and  expirs, — 

B* 


J8 


ION. 


Nor  such  as  the  rapt  orator  imbues 

With  warmth  of  facile  sympathy,  and  mouhb 

To  mirrors  radiant  with  fair  images, 

To  grace  the  noble  fervour  of  an  hour  ; — 

But  words  which  bear  the  spirits  of  great  deeds 

Wing'd  for  the  Future  ;  which  the  dying  breath 

Of  Freedom's  martyr  shapes  as  it  exhales, 

And  to  the  most  enduring' forms  of  earth 

Commits — to  linger  in  the  craggy  shade 

Of  the  huge  valley,  'neath  the  eagle's  home, 

Or  in  the  sea-cave  where  the  tempest  sleeps, 

Till  some  heroic  leader  bid  them  wake 

To  thrill  the  world  with  echoes  ! — But  I  talk 

Of  things  above  my  grasp,  which  strangely  press 

Upon  my  soul,  and  tempt  me  to  forget 

The  duties  of  my  youth  ;  pray  you  forgive  me. 

Tim.  Have  I  not  said  so  ] 

Agen.  Welcome  to  the  morn  ! 
The  eastern  gates  unfold,  the  Priest  approaches ; 

[As  Agenor  speaks,  the  great  gates  at  the  back  of  the  Scsne 
open  ;  the  Sea  is  discovered  far  beneath, — the  dawn  breaking 
over  it. 

Medon,  the  Priest,  enters,  attended. 
And  lo  !  the  sun  is  struggling  with  the  gloom, 
Whose  masses  fill  the  eastern  sky,  and  tints 
Its  edges  with  dull  red  ; — but  he  will  triumph  ; 
Bless'd  be  the  omen  ! 

Medon.  God  of  light  and  joy, 
Once  more  delight  us  with  thy  healing  beams ! 
If  I  may  trace  thy  language  in  the  clouds 
That  wait  upon  thy  rising,  help  is  nigh — 
But  help  achieved  in  blood. 

Ion.  Say'st  thou  in  blood  1 

Medon.  Yes,  Ion  ! — why,  he  sickens  at  the  word, 
Spite  of  his  new-born  strength:  the  sights  of  woe 
That  he  will  seek  have  shed  their  paleness  on  him. 
Has  this  night's  walk  shown  more  than  common  sorrow  t 

Ion.  I  pass'd  the  palace  where  the  frantic  king 
Yet  holds  his  crimson  revel,  when  ;e  the  roar 
Of  desperate  mirth  came,  mingling  with  the  sigh 
Of  death-subdued  robustness,  and  the  gleam 


8cm  IJ 


ION. 


Of  festal  lamps  'mid  spectral  columns  hung 
Flaunting  o'er  shapes  of  anguish,  made  them  ghastlier. 
How  can  I  cease  to  tremble  for  the  sad  ones 
He  mocks — and  him,  the  wretchedest  of  all  1 

Tim.  And  canst  thou  pity  him  1  Dost  thou  discern, 
Amidst  his  impious  darings,  plea  for  him  ? 

Ion.  Is  he  not  childless,  friendless,  and  a  king? 
He's  human  ;  and  some  pulse  of  good  must  live 
Within  his  nature — have  ye  tried  to  wake  it  1 

Meclon.    Yes  ;  I  believe  he  felt  our  sufferings  once ; 
When,  at  my  strong  entreaty,  he  despatched 
Phocion,  my  son,  to  Delphos,  there  to  seek 
Our  cause  of  sorrow;  but,  as  time  dragg'd  on 
Without  his  messenger's  return,  he  grew 
Impatient  of  all  counsel, — to  his  palace 
In  awful  mood  retiring,  wildly  call'd 
The  reckless  of  his  court  to  share  its  stores, 
And  end  all  with  him.    When  we  dared  disturb 
His  dreadful  feasting  with  a  humble  prayer 
That  he  would  meet  us,  the  poor  slave,  who  bore 
The  message,  flew  back  smarting  from  the  scourge, 
And  mutter'd  a  decree  that  he  who  next 
Unbidden  met  the  tyrant's  glance,  should  die. 

Agen.  I  am  prepared  to  brave  it. 

Clean.  So  am  L 

Tim.  And  I — 

Ion.  O,  Sages,  do  not  think  my  prayer 
Bespeaks  unseemly  forwardness — send  me ! 
The  coarsest  reed  that  trembles  in  the  marsh, 
If  Heaven  select  it  for  its  instrument, 
May  shed  celestial  music  on  the  breeze, 
As  clearly  as  the  pipe  whose  virgin  gold 
Befits  the  lip  of  Phcebus  ; — ye  are  wise  ; 
And  needed  by  your  country;  ye  are  fathers  . 
I  am  a  lone  stray  thing,  whose  little  life 
By  strangers'  bounty  cherish'd,  like  a  wave, 
That  from  the  summer  sea  a  wanton  breeze 
Lifts  for  a  moment's  sparkle,  will  subside 
Light  as  it  rosyi,  nor  leave  a  sigh  in  breaking. 

Medon.  Ion,  no  sigh  ! 

lor.  FfTgiveme,  if  I  seem'd 


20  lot. 

To  doubt  that  thou  wilt  mourn  me  if  1  fall; 
N  jr  would  I  tax  thy  love  with  such  a  fear, 
But  that  high  promptings,  which  could  never  rise 
Spontaneous  in  my  nature,  bid  me  plead 
Thus  boldly  for  the  mission. 

Medon.  My  brave  boy  ! 
It  shall  be  as  thou  wilt.    I  see  thou  art  calPd 
To  this  great  peril,  and  I  will  not  stay  thee. 
When  wilt  thou  be  prepared  to  seek  it  1 

Ion.  Now. 
Only  before  I  go,  thus,  on  my  knee, 
Let  me  in  one  word  thank  thee  for  a  life 
Made  by  thy  love  a  cloudless  holiday  ; 
And,  oh,  my  more  than  father !  let  me  look 
Up  to  thy  face,  as  if  indeed  a  father's, 
And  give  Hit?  «  son's  blessing. 

Medon.  Bless  thee,  son  ! 
I  should  be  marble  now  ;  let's  part  at  once. 

Ion.  If  I  should  not  return,  bless  Phocion  for  me ; 
And,  for  Clemanthe — may  I  speak  one  wore, 
One  parting  word,  with  my  fair  playfellow  ] 

Medon.  I  f  thou  wouldst  have  it  so,  thou  shalt. 

Ion.    Farewell  then  ! 
Your  prayers  wait  on  my  steps.    The  arm  of  Heaven 
I  feel,  in  life  or  death,  will  be  around  me.  [Exit,  l. 

Medon.  O  grant  it  be  in  life !    Let's  to  the  sacrifice. 

[Exeunt,  B. 

SCENE  II. — An  Apartment  of  the  Temple. 
Enter  Clemaxtiie,  followed  by  Abra,  r. 

Clem.  Is  he  so  changed] 

Abra.  His  bearing  is  so  alter'd, 
That,  distant,  I  scarce  knew  him  for  himself; 
But,  looking  in  his  face,  I  felt  his  smile 
Gracious  as  ever,  though  its  sweetness  wore 
Unwonted  sorrow  in  it. 

Clem.  He  will  go 
To  some  high  fortune,  and  forget  us  a  ll, 
Reclaim'd  (be  sure  of  it)  by  noble  parents; 
Me,  he  forgets  already  ;  for  five  days, 
Five  melancholy  days,  I  have  not  seen  him. 


SCKWXlI.] 


ION. 


21 


Abra,  Thou  knowest  that  he  hag  privilege  to  range 

The  infected  city  ;  and,  'tis  said,  he  spends 
The  hours  of  needful  rest  in  squalid  hovels 
Where  death  is  most  forsaken. 

Clem,  Why  is  this  1 
Why  should  my  father,  niggard  of  the  lives 
Of  aged  men,  be  prodigal  of  youth 
So  rich  in  glorious  prophecy  as  his  1 

Abra.  He  comes  to  answer  for  himself.    Pi  leave  you. 

[Exitt  r, 

Clem.  Stay !  Well  my  heart  may  guard  its  secret  best 
By  its  own  strength. 

Enter  Ion,  l. 

Ton.  How  fares  my  pensive  sister  1 

Clem.  How  should  I  fare  but  ill,  when  the  pale  hand 
Draws  the  black  foldings  of  the  eternal  curtain 
Closer  and  closer  round  us — Phocion  absent — 
And  thou,  forsaking  all  within  thy  home, 
Wilt  risk  thy  life  with  strangers,  in  whose  aid 
Even  thou  canst  do  but  little  ? 

Ion.  It  is  little  : 
But  in  these  sharp  extremities  of  fortune, 
The  blessings  which  the  weak  and  poor  can  scatter 
Have  their  own  season.    'Tis  a  little  thing 
To  give  a  cup  of  water ;  yet  its  draught 
Of  cool  refreshment,  drain'd  by  fever' d  lips, 
May  give  a  shock  of  pleasure  to  the  frame 
More  exquisite  than  when  nectarean  juice 
Renews  the  life  of  joy  in  happiest  hours. 
It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  phrase 
Of  common  comfort,  which  by  daily  use 
Has  almost  lost  its  sense  ;  yet  on  the  ear 
Of  him  who  thought  to  die  unmourn'd,  'twill  "all 
Like  choicest  music ;  fill  the  glazing  eye 
With  gentle  tears  ;  relax  the  knotted  hand 
To  know  the  bonds  of  fellowship  again ; 
And  shed  on  the  departing  soul  a  sense, 
More  precious  than  the  benison  of  friends 
About  the  honoured  death-bed  of  the  rich, 
To  him  who  else  were  lonely,  that  another 
Of  the  great  family  is  near  and  feels. 


22 


ION. 


Clem.  Oh,  thou  canst  never  bear  these  mournful  o* 
fices ! 

So  blithe,  so  merry  once  !    Will  not  the  sight 
Of  frenzied  agonies  unfix  thy  reason. 
Or  the  dumb  woe  congeal  thee  1 

Ion.  No,  Clemanthe  : 
They  are  the  patient  sorrows  that  touch  nearest ! 
If  thou  hadst  seen  the  warrior,  when  he  writhed 
In  the  last  grapple  of  his  sinewy  frame 
With  conquering  anguish,  strive  to  cast  a  smile 
(And  not  in  vain)  upon  his  fragile  wife, 
Waning  beside  him, — and,  his  limbs  compered, 
The  widow  of  the  moment  fix  her  gaze 
Of  longing,  speechless  love,  upon  the  babe, 
The  only  living  thing  which  yet  was  hers, 
Spreading  its  arms  for  its  own  resting-place, 
Yet  with  attenuated  hand  wave  off 
The  unstricken  child,  and  so  embraceless  die 
Stifling  the  mighty  hunger  of  the  heart ; 
Thou  could'st  endure  the  sight  of  selfish  grief 
In  sullenness  or  frenzy ; — but  to-day 
Another  lot  falls  on  me. 

Clem.  Thou  wilt  leave  us  ! 
I  read  it  plainly  in  thy  altered  mien. 
Is  it  for  ever  ] 

Ion.  That  is  with  the  gods  ! 
I  go  but  to  the  palace,  urged  by  hope, 
Which  from  afar  hath  darted  on  my  soul, 
That  to  the  humbleness  of  one  like  me 
/  The  haughty  king  may  listen. 

Clem.  To  the  palace  ! 
Knowest  thou  the  peril — nay,  the  certain  { 
That  waits  thee  %  Death  ! — The  tyrant  has 
Confirmed  it  with  an  oath  ;  and  he  has  po> 
To  keep  that  oath  ;  for,  hated  as  he  is, 
The  reckless  soldiers  who  partake  his  not 
Are  swift  to  do  his  bidding. 

Ion.  I  know  all ! 
But  they  who  call  me  to  the  work  can  stiel 
Or  make  me  strong  to  suffer. 

Clem.  Then  the  sword 


SCEWE  II.] 


ION. 


Falls  on  thy  neck !    O  gods  !  to  think  that  thou, 

Who  in  the  plenitude  of  youthful  life 

Art  now  before  me,  ere  the  sun  decline, 

Perhaps  in  one  short  hour,  shalt  lie  cold,  cold, 

To  speak,  smile,  bless  no  more  ! — Thou  shalt  not  go ! 

Ion.  Thou  must  not  stay  me,  fair  one  :  even  thy  father, 
Who  (blessings  on  him  !)  loves  me  as  his  son. 
Yields  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 

Clem.  And  can  he  do  this  ! 
I  shall  not  bear  his  presence,  if  thou  fallest 
By  his  consent :  so  shall  I  be  alone. 

Ion.  Phocion  will  soon  return,  and  juster  thoughts 
Of  thy  admiring  father  close  the  gap 
Thy  old  companion  left  behind  him. 

Clem.  Never! 
What  will  to  me  be  father,  brother,  friends, 
When  thou  art  gone — the  light  of  our  life  quench'd— 
Haunting  like  spectres  of  departed  joy 
The  home  where  thou  wert  dearest  ] 

Ion.  Thrill  me  not 
With  words  that,  in  their  agony,  suggest 
A  hope  too  ravishing, — or  my  head  will  swim, 
And  my  heart  faint  within  me. 

Clem.  Has  my  speech 
Such  blessed  power  1    I  will  not  mourn  it  then, 
T/^ough  it  had  told  a  secret  I  had  borne 
Till  death  in  silence  :  how  affection  grew 
To  this,  I  know  not : — day  succeeded  day, 
Eacn  fraught  with  the  same  innocent  delights, 
Without  one  shock  to  ruffle  the  disguise 
Of  sisterly  regard  which  veil'd  it  well, 
Till  thy  changed  mien  reveal'd  it  to  my  soul, 
And  thy  great  peril  makes  me  bold  to  tell  it. 
Do  not  despise  it  in  me  ! 

Ion  With  deep  joy 
Thus  I  receive  it.    Trust  me,  it  is  long 
Since  I  have  learn'd  to  tremble  'mid  our  pleasures, 
Lest  I  should  break  the  golden  dream  around  me 
With  most  ungrateful  rashness.    I  should  bless 
The  sharp  and  perilous  duty  which  hath  press'd 
A  life's  deliciousness  into  these  moments, — 


24 


ION'. 


[Act  1 


Which  here  must,  end.    I  came  to  say  farewelJ, 

And  th.3  word  must  be  said. 

Clem.  Thou  can'st  not  mean  it ! 
Have  I  disclaimed  all  maiden  bashfulness, 
To  tell  the  cherished  secret  of  my  soul 
To  my  soul's  master,  and  in  rich  return 
Obtained  the  dear  assurance  of  his  love, 
To  hear  him  speak  that  miserable  word 
I  cannot — will  not  echo  1  » 

Ion.  Heaven  has  called  me, 
And  I  have  pledged  my  honour.    "When  thy  heart 
Bestowed  its  preference  on  a  friendless  boy, 
Thou  didst  not  image  him  a  recreant ;  nor 
Must  he  prove  so,  by  thy  election  crown'd. 
Thou  hast  endow'd  me  with  a  right  to  claim 
Thy  help  through  this  our  journey,  be  its  coursa 
Lengthen'd  to  age,  or  in  an  hour  to  end ; 
And  now  1  ask  it ! — Bid  my  courage  hold, 
And  with  thy  free  approval  send  me  forth 
In  soul  apparelled  for  my  office  ! 

"Clem.  Go! 
I  would  not  have  thee  other  than  thou  art, 
Living  or  dying ;  and  if  thou  shouldst  fall — 

Ion.  Be  sure  I  shall  return. 

Clem.  If  thou  shouldst  fall, 
I  shall  be  happier  as  the  affianced  bride 
Of  thy  cold  ashes,  than  in  proudest  fortunes — 
Thine — ever  thine —  [She  faints  in  his  arms 

Ion  (calls.)  Abra  ! — So  best  to  part — 

Enter  Abra,  with  attendant,  it. 

Let  her  have  air  ;  be  near  her  through  the  day  ; 
I  know  thy  tenderness — should  ill  news  come, 
Of  any  friend,  she  will  require  it  all. 

[Abra  hears  Clemanthe  out,  &, 
Ye  gods,  that  have  enriched  the  life  ye  claim 
With  priceless  treasure,  strengthen  me  to  yield  it ! 

\Exitt  U 

WND  OF  ACT  I. 


SoKirv  i  1 


ION 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — A  terrace  of  the  Palace. 
Adrastus,  Crythes,  and  Guards,  from  the  Terrace,  c, 

Adras.  The  air  breathes  freshly  after  our  long  night 
Of  glorious  revelry.    I'll  walk  awhile. 

Cry.  It  blows  across  the  town  :  dost  thou  not  fear 
It  bear  infection  with  it  % 

Adras.  Fear  !  dost  talk 
Of  fear  to  me  ]    I  deem'd  even  thy  poor  thoughts 
Had  better  scarm'd  their  master.    Prithee  tell  me, 
In  what  act,  word,  or  look,  since  I  have  borne 
Thy  converse  here,  hast  thou  discern'd  such  baseness 
As  makes  thee  bold  to  prate  to  me  of  fear  % 

Cry.  My  liege,  of  human  might  all  know  thee  fearless 
But  may  not  heroes  shun  the  elements 
When  sickness  taints  them  1 

Adras.  Let  them  blast  me  now  ! — 
I  stir  not — tremble  not !    These  massive  walls 
Whose  date  o'erawes  tradition,  gird  the  home 
Of  a  great  race  of  kings,  along  whose  line 
The  eager  mind  lives  aching,  through  the  darkness 
Of  ages  else  unstoried,  till  its  shapes 
Of  armed  sovereigns  spread  to  godlike  port, 
And,  frowning  in  the  uncertain  dawn  of  time, 
Strike  awe,  as  powers  who  ruled  an  elder  world, 
In  mute  obedience.    I,  sad  heritor 
Of  all  their  glories,  feel  our  doom  is  nigh ; 
And  I  will  meet  it  as  befits  their  fame  : 
Nor  will  I  vary  my  selected  path 
The  breadth  of  my  sword's  edge,  nor  check  a  wish 
If  such  unkingly  yielding  might  avert  it. 

Cry.  Thou  art  ever  royal  in  thy  thoughts. 

Adras.  No  more — 
I  would  be  private.         [Exit  Crythes,  with  guards,  & 
Grovelling  parasite ! 

Why  should  I  waste  these  fate-environ'd  hours, 
And  pledge  my  great  defiance  to  despair, 
With  flatterers  such  as  thou  ! — as  if  my  joys 


26 


ION. 


,  Act  a 


Required  l  he  pale  reflections  cast  by  slaves 

In  mirror' d  mockery  round  my  throne,  or  lack'd 

The  aid  of  reptile  sympathies  to  stream 

Through  fate's  black  pageantry  ?    Let  weakness  seek 

Companionship  :  I'll  henceforth  feast  alone. 

Enter  a  Soldier,  r. 

Sd.  My  liege,  forgive  me. 

Adras.  Well !  speak  out  at  once 
Thy  business  and  retire. 

Sol.  I  have  no  part 
In  the  presumptuous  message  that  I  bear. 

Adras.  Tell  it,  or  go.    There  is  no  time  to  waste 
On  idle  terrors. 

Sol.  Thus  it  is,  my  lord : — 
As  we  were  burnishing  our  arms,  a  man 
Enter'd  the  court,  and  when  we  saw  him  first 
Was  tending  towards  the  palace  ;  in  amaze 
We  hail'd  the  rash  intruder;  still  he  walk'd 
Unheeding  onward,  till  the  western  gate 
Barr'd  further  course  :  then  turning,  he  besought 
Our  startled  band  to  herald  him  to  thee, 
That  he  might  urge  a  message  whieh  the  sages 
Had  charged  him  to  deliver. 

Adras.  Ha!  the  greybeards, 
Who,  'mid  the  altars  of  the  gods,  conspire 
To  cast  the  image  of  supernal  power 
From  earth,  its  shadow  consecrates.    What  sage 
Is  so  resolved  to  play  the  orator 
That  he  would  die  for't  ] 

Sol.  He  is  but  a  youth, 
Yet  urged  his  prayer  with  a  sad  constancy 
Which  could  not  be  denied. 

Adras.  Most  bravely  plann'd  ! 
Sedition  worthy  of  the  reverent  host 
Of  sophist  traitors  ;  brave  to  scatter  fancies 
Of  discontent  'midst  sturdy  artizans, 
Whose  honest  sinews  they  direct  unseen, 
And  make  their  proxies  in  the  work  of  peril ! 
'Tis  fit,  when  burning  to  insult  their  king, 
And  warn'd  the  pleasure  must  be  bought  with  life, 


Scot  I.J  VDN.  27 

Their  valour  send  a  boy  to  speak  their  wisdom  ! 
Thou  kncw'st  my  last  decree  ;  tell  this  rash  youtn 
The  danger  he  incurs  ;  then  let  him  pass. 
And  own  the  king  more  gentle  than  his  masters. 

Sol.  We  have  already  told  him  of  the  fate, 
Winch  waits  his  daring ;  courteously  he  thank'd  us, 
But  still  with  solemn  aspect  urged  his  suit. 

Adras.  Tell  him  once  more,  if  he  persists,  he  dies- 
Then,  if  he  will,  admit  him.    Should  he  hold 
His  purpose,  order  Crythes  to  conduct  him, 
And  see  the  headsman  instantly  prepare 
To  do  his  office.  [Exit  Solpier 

So  resolved,  so  young — 
'Twere  pity  he  should  fall ;  yet  he  must  fall, 
Or  the  great  sceptre,  which  hath  sway'd  the  fears 
Of  ages,  will  become  a  common  staff, 
For  youth  to  wield  or  age  to  rest  upon, 
Despoil'd  of  all  its  virtues.    He  must  fall, 
Else,  they  who  prompt  the  insult  will  grow  bold, 
And  with  their  pestilent  vauntings  through  the  city 
Raise  the  low  fog  of  murky  discontent, 
Which  now  creeps  harmless  through  its  marshy  birth-place 
To  veil  my  setting  glories.    He  is  warn'd ; 
And  if  he  cross  yon  threshold,  he  shall  die. 

Enter  Crythes  and  Ion,  r. 
Cry.  The  king! 

Adras.  Stranger,  I  bid  thee  welcome  •, 
We  are  about  to  tread  the  same  dark  passage, 
Thou  almost  on  the  instant.  Is  the  sword      [  To  Crythki 
Of  justice  sharpen'd,  and  the  headsman  ready] 

Cry.  Thou  mayst  behold  them  plainly  in  the  court : 
Even  now  the  solemn  soldiers  line  the  ground; 
The  steel  gleams  on  the  altar;  and  the  slave 
Disrobes  himself  for  duty.  - 

Adras.  {to  Ion.)  Dost  thou  see  them  1 

Ion.  I  do. 

Adras.  By  Heaven,  he  does  not  change ! 
If,  even  n  ow,  thou  wilt  depart,  and  leave 
Thy  traitorous  thoughts  unspoken,  thou  art  free. 

Ion.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  offer ;  but  I  stand 


28  ion.  [act  n 

Before  thee  for  the  lives  of  thousands,  rich 

In  all  that  makes  life  precious  to  the  brave  ; 

Who  perish  not  alone,  but  in  their  fall 

Break  the  far  spreading  tendrils  that  they  feed, 

And  leave  them  nurtureless.    If  thou  wilt  hear  me 

For  them,  I  am  content  to  speak  no  more. 

Adras.  Thou  hast  thy  wish  then.   Crythes  !  till  yon  diftt 
Casts  its  thin  shadow  on  the  approaching  hour, 
I  hear  this  gallant  traitor.    On  the  instant, 
Come  without  word,  and  lead  him  to  his  doom. 
Now  leave  us.  % 

Cry.  What,  alone  1 

Adras.  Yes,  slave  !  alone. 
He  is  no  assassin  !  [Exit  Crythes, 

Tell  me  who  thou  art. 

What  generous  source  owns  that  heroic  blood, 
Which  holds  its  course  thus  bravely  ]    What  great  wars 
Have  nursed  the  courage  that  can  look  on  death, 
Certain  and  speedy  death,  with  placid  eye  1 
Ion.  I  am  a  simple  youth,  who  never  bore 
The  weight  of  armour, — one  who  may  not  boast 
Of  noble  birth  or  valour  of  his  own. 
Deem  not  the  powers  which  nerve  me  thus  to  speak 
In  thy  great  presence,  and  have  made  my  heart 
Upon  the  verge  of  bloody  death  as  calm, 
As  equal  in  its  beatings,  as  when  sleep 
Approach'd  me  nestling  from  the  sportive  toils 
Of  thoughtless  childhood,  and  celestial  dreams 
Began  to  glimmer  through  the  deepening  shadows 
Of  soft  oblivion, — to  belong  to  me  ! 

These  are  the  strengths  of  Heaven  :  to  thee  they  speak, 

Bid  thee  to  hearken  to  thy  people's  cry, 

Or  warn  thee  that  thy  hour  must  shortly  come  ! 

Adras.  I  know  it  must ;  so  mayst  thou  spare  thy  war» 
ings. 

The  envious  gods  in  me  have  doom'd  a  race, 

Whose  glories  stream  from  the  same  cloud-girt  founts, 

Whence  their  own  dawn'd  upon  the  infant  world  ; 

And  I  ehall  sit  on  my  ancestral  throi.e 

To  meet  their  vengeance;  but,  till  then.  I  rule 

As  I  have  ever  ruled,  and  thou  wilt  feel. 


8cm  J.] 


ION. 


Ion.  I  >/ill  not  further  urge  thy  safety  to  thee  j 
It  may  be,  as  thou  sayst,  too  late ;  nor  seek 
To  make  thee  tremble  at  the  gathering  curse 
Which  shall  burst  foith  in  mockery  at  thy  fall : 
But  thou  art  gifted  with  a  nobler  sense — 
I  know  thou  art,  my  sovereign  ! — sense  of  pain 
Endured  by  myriad  Argives,  in  whose  souls, 
And  in  whose  fathers'  souls,  thou  and  thy  fathers 
Have  kept  their  cherish'd  state  ;  whose  heartstrii  gs,  si. 
The  living  fibres  of  thy  rooted  power, 
Quiver  with  agonies  thy  crimes  have  drawn 
From  heavenly  justice  on  them. 

Adras.  How  !  my  crimes  1 

Ion.  Yes  ;  'tis  the  eternal  law,  that  where  guilt  is, 
Sorrow  shall  answer  it ;  and  thou  hast  not 
A  poor  man's  privilege  to  bear  alone, 
Or  in  tbe  narrow  circle  of  his  kinsmen, 
The  penalties  of  evil,  for  in  thine 
A  nation 'n  fate  lies  circled. — King  Adrastus  ! 
Steel'd  a««  thy  heart  is  with  the  usages 
Of  pomp  *  j»d  power,  a  few  short  summers  since 
Thou  wert  ?  child,  and  canst  not  be  relentless. 
Oh,  if  maternal  love  embraced  thee  then, 
Think  of  the  mothers  who  with  eyes  unwet 
G-lare  o'er  their  perishing  children  :  hast  thou  shared 
The  glow  of  a  first  friendship,  which  is  bora 
'Midst  the  /ude  sports  of  boyhood,  think  of  youth 
Smitte»  r/r  .^st  its  playthings ;  let  the  spirit 
Of  thy  r,p  p  mnocent  childhood  whisper  pity  ! 

Adrcs  7  n  every  word  thou  dost  but  steel  my  sou  I. 
7l[y  youih  was  blasted  :  parents,  brother,  kin — 
Jul  that  should  people  infancy  with  joy — 
fJonspired  to  poison  mine ;  despoil'd  my  life 
')f  innocence  and  hope — all  but  the  sword 
hud  sceptre — dost  thou  wcnder  at  me  now  ] 

Ion.  I  knew  that  we  should  pity — 

Adras.  Pity !  dare 
To  speak  that  word  again,  and  torture  waits  thee ! 
s  am  yet  king  of  Argos.    Well,  go  on — 
Thy  time  is  short,  and  I  am  pledged  to  hear. 

tm>  If  thou  hast  ever  loved — 


30 


ION. 


[Act  n. 


Auras.  Beware!  beware! 

Ion.  Thou  hast '  T  see  thou  hast !   Thcu  art  n  )t  marble 
Aiid  thou  shalt  hear  me  ! — Think  upon  the  time 
When  the  clear  depths  of  thy  yet  lucid  soul 
Were  rulfled  with  the  troublings  of  strange  joy, 
As  if  some  unseen  visitant  from  heaven 
Touch'd  the  calm  lake,  and  wreathed  its  images 
In  sparkling  waves  !    Recall  the  dallying  hope 
That  on  the  margin  of  assurance  trembled, 
As  loth  to  lose  in  certainty  too  bless'd, 
Its  happy  being ;  taste  in  thought  again 
Of  the  stolen  sweetness  of  those  evening  walks, 
When  pansied  turf  was  air  to  winged  feet, 
And  circling  forests,  by  ethereal  touch 
Enchanted,  wore  the  livery  of  the  sky, 
As  if  about  to  melt  in  golden  light 
Shapes  of  one  heavenly  vision  ;  and  thy  heart, 
Enlarged  by  its  new  sympathy  with  one, 
Grew  bountiful  to  all ! 

Adras.  That  tone  !  that  tone  ! 
Whence  came  it  ]  from  thy  lips  !  it  cannot  be — 
The  long-hush'd  music  of  the  only  voice 
That  ever  spake  unbought  affection  to  me, 
And  waked  my  soul  to  blessing  !  O  sweet  hours 
Of  golden  joy,  ye  come  !  your  glories  break 
Through  my  pavilion'd  spirit's  sable  folds  ! 
Roll  on  !  roll  on !    Stranger,  thou  dost  enforce  m& 
To  speak  of  things  unbreathed  by  lip  of  mine 
To  human  ear  :  wilt  listen  ] 

Ion.  As  a  child. 

Adras.  Again !  that  voice  again !  thou  hast  seen  me 

moved 

As  never  mortal  saw  me,  by  a  tone 
Which  some  light  breeze,  enamour'd  of  the  sound, 
■Hath  wafted  through  the  woods,  till  thy  young  voice 
Caught  it  to  rive  and  melt  me.    At  my  birth 
This  city,  which,  expectant  of  its  Prince, 
Lay  hush'd,  broke  out  in  clamorous  ecstacies ; 
Yet,  in  that  moment,  while  the  uplifted  cups 
Foam'd  with  the  choicest  product  of  the  sun, 
And  welcome  thunder'd  from  a  thousand  throats. 


&CTWT.  I.] 


ION. 


31 


My -doom  was  seal'd.    From  the  hearth's  vacart  Rpa<.<5, 

In  the  dark  chamber  where  my  mother  lay, 

Faint  with  the  sense  of  pain-bought  happiness, 

Came  forth,  in  heart-appalling  tone,  these  words 

Of  me  the  nurseling  : — "  Woe  unto  the  babe  ! 

"Against  the  life  whit*1  now  begins,  shall  life, 

"  Lighted  from  thence,  be  arm'd,  and,  both  soon  queucb'd, 

"  End  this  great  line  in  sorrow  !" — Ere  I  grew 

Of  years  to  know  myself  a  thing  accursed, 

A  second  son  was  born,  to  steal  the  love 

Which  fate  had  else  scarce  rifled  :  he  Decame 

My  parents'  hope,  the  darling  of  the  crew 

Who  lived  upon  their  smiles,  and  thought  it  flattery 

To  trace  in  every  foible  of  my  youth — 

A  prince's  youth  ! — the  workings  of  the  curse. 

My  very  mother — Jove  !  I  cannot  bear 

To  speak  it  now — looked  freezingly  upon  me  ! 

Ion.  But  thy  brother — 

Adras.  Died.    Thou  hast  heard  the  lie, 
The  common  lie  that  every  peasant  tells 
Of  me  his  master, — that  I  slew  the  boy. 
'Tis  false  !    One  summer's  eve,  below  a  c  ag 
Which,  in  his  wilful  mood,  he  strove  to  climb, 
He  lay  a  mangled  corpse  :  the  very  slaves, 
Whose  cruelty  had  shut  him  from  my  heart, 
Now  coined  their  own  injustice  into  proofs 
To  brand  me  as  his  murderer. 

Ion.  Did  they  dare 
Accuse  thee  1 

Adras.  Not  in  open  speech  :  they  felt 
T  should  have  seized  the  miscreant  by  the  throat, 
And  crushed  the  lie,  half-spoken,  with  the  life 
Of  the  base  speaker ;  but  the  lie  look'd  out 
From  the  stolen  gaze  of  coward  eyes,  which  shrank 
When  mine  have  met  them  ;  murmur'd  throug  1  the  srowd 
That  at  the  sacrifice,  or  feast,  or  game, 
Stood  distant  from  me;  burnt  into  my  soul 
When  I  beheld  it  in  my  father's  shudder  ! 

Ion.  Didst  not  declare  thy  innocence  \ 

Adras.  To  whom  % 
To  parents  who  could  doubt  me  ?    To  the  ring 


32 


ION. 


I  Ac*  |i 


Of*  grave  impostors,  or  their  shallow  sons, 

Who  shoul    have  studied  to  prevent  my  wish, 

Before  it  grew  to  language  ;  hailed  my  choice 

T<>  service  as  a  prize  to  wrestle  for; 

And  whose  reluctant  courtesy  I  bore, 

Pale  with  proud  anger,  till  from  lips  compress'd 

The  blood  has  started  1    To  the  common  herd. 

The  vassals  of  our  ancient  house,  the  mass 

Of  bones  and  muscles  framed  to  till  the  soil 

A  few  brief  years,  ^hen  rot  unnamed  beneath  it, 

Or,  deck'd  for  slaughter  at  their  master's  call, 

To  smite  and  to  be  smitten,  and  lie  crush'd 

hi  heaps  to  swell  his  glory  or  his  shame  ] 

A  nswer  to  them  ]  No!  though  my  heart  had  burst. 

As  it  was  nigh  to  bursting  ! — To  the  mountains 

l  tied,  and  on  their  pinnacles  of  snow 

Breasted  the  icy  wind,  in  hope  to  cool 

My  spirit's  fever — struggled  with  the  oak 

In  search  of  weariness,  and  learn'd  to  rive 

Its  stubborn  boughs,  till  linrbs,  once  lightly  strung^ 

Might  mate  in  cordage  with  its  infant  stems ; 

Or  on  the  sea-beat  rock  tore  off  the  vest 

Which  burnt  upon  my  bosom,  and  to  air 

Headlong  committed,  clove  the  water's  depth 

Which  plummet  never  sounded  ; — but  in  vain. 

Ion.  Yet  succour  came  to  thee  1 

Adras.  A  blessed  one  ! 
Which  the  strange  magic  of  thy  voice  revives, 
And  thus  unlocks  my  soul.    My  rapid  steps 
Were,  in  a  wood-encircled  valley,  stayed 
By  the  bright  vision  of  a  maid,  whose  face 
Most  lovely,  more  than  loveliness  reveal'd, 
In  touch  of  patient  grief,  which  dearer  seem'd 
Than  happiness  to  spirit  sear'd  like  mine. 
With  feeble  hands  she  strove  to  lay  in  ea:th 
The  body  of  her  aged  sire,  whose  death 
Left  her  alone.    1  aided  her  sad  work, 
And  soon  two  lonely  ones,  by  holy  rites, 
Became  one  happy  being.    Days,  weeks,  monthly 
In  stream-like  unity  flow'd  silent  by  us 
In  our  delightful  nest.    My  father's  spies— 


t 


0CEHE  I.]  ion.  33 

Slaves,  wnom  my  nod  should  have  consignM  to  stn'pes 
Or  the  swift  falchion — tracked  our  sylvan  home 
Just  as  my  bosom  knew  its  second  joy, 
And,  spite  of  fortune,  I  embraced  a  son. 

Ion.  Urged  by  thy  trembling  parents  to  avert 
That  dreadful  prophecy  1 

Adras.  Fools  !  did  they  deem 
Its  worst  accomplishment  could  match  the  ill  • 
Which  they  wrought  on  me  ?  It  had  left  unharm'd 
A  thousand  ecstacies  of  passion'd  years, 
Which,  tasted  once,  live  ever,  and  disdain 
Fate's  iron  grapple  !    Could  I  now  behold 
That  son,  with  knife  uplifted  at  my  heart, 
A  moment  ere  my  life-blood  followed  it, 
I  would  embrace  him  with  my  dying  eyes, 
And  pardon  destiny  !    While  jocund  smiles 
Wreathed  on  the  infant's  face,  as  if  sweet  spirits 
Suggested  pleasant  fancies  to  its  soul, 
The  ruffians  broke  upon  us ;  seized  the  child  j 
Dash'd  through  the  thicket  to  the  beetling  rock 
'Neath  which  the  deep  wave  eddies  :  I  stood  still 
As  stricken  into  stone ;  I  heard  him  cry, 
Press'd  by  the  rudeness  of  the  murderer's  gripe, 
Severer  ill  unfearing — then  the  splash 
Of  waters  that  shall  cover  him  for  ever; 
And  could  not  stir  to  save  him  ! 

Ion.  And  the  mother — 

Adras.  She  spake  no  word,  but  clasped  me  in  her  arrni, 
And  lay  her  down  to  die.    A  lingering  gaze 
Of  love  she  fix'd  on  me — none  other  loved, — 
And  so  pass'd  hence.    By  Jupiter,  her  look ! 
Her  dying  patience  glimmers  in  thy  face  ! 
She  lives  again  !    She  looks  upon  me  now ! 
There's  magic  in't.    Bear  with  me — I  am  childish. 

Enter  Crytiies,  and  Guards,  it. 

Adras.  Why  art  thou  here  1 
Cry.  The  dial  points  the  hour. 

Adras.  Dost  thou  not  see  that  norrid  purpose  pass'd  X 
Hast  thou  no  heart — no  sense  1 
Gry.  Scarce  half  an  hour 


34 


Act  II 


Hath  flown  since  the  command  on  which  I  wait. 

Adras.  Scarce  half  an  hour ! — years —  years  have  roll'd 
since  then. 

Begone!  remove  that  pageantry  of  death — 

It  blasts  my  sight — and  hearken  !  Touch  a  hair 

Of  this  brave  youth,  or  look  on  him  as  now 

With  thy  cold  headsman's  eye,  and  yonder  band 

Shall  not  expect  a  fearful  show  in  vain. 

Hence,  without  word  !  [Exit  Crythe3,  r. 

What  wouldst  thou  have  me  d<>  ? 

Ion.  Let  thy  awakened  heart  speak  its  own  language ; 
Convene  thy  Sages  ; — frankly,  nobly  meet  them  ; 
Explore  with  them  the  pleasure  of  the  gods, 
And,  whatsoe'er  the  sacrifice,  perform  it. 

Adras.  Well !  I  will  seek  their  presence  in  an  hour ; 
Go  summon  them,  young  hero  :  hold  !  no  word 
Of  the  strange  passion  thou  hast  witness'd  here. 

Ion.  Distrust  me  not ! — Benignant  powers,  I  thank  ye ! 

[Exit,  r. 

Adras.  Yet  stay — he's  gone — his  spell  is  on  me  yet ; 
What  have  I  promised  him  ]  To  meet  the  men 
Who  from  my  living  head  would  strip  the  crown 
And  sit  in  judgment  on  me  ? — I  must  do  it — 
Yet  shall  my  band  be  ready  to  o'erawe 
The  course  of  liberal  speech,  and,  if  it  rise 
So  as  too  loudly  to  offend  my  ear, 
Strike  the  rash  brawler  dead  ! — What  idle  dream 
Of  long-past  days  had  melted  me  1    it  fades — 
It  vanishes — I  am  again  a  king ! 

SCENE  II.—  The  Interior  of  the  Temple 

[Same  as  Act  I.  Scene  I] 

Clemanthe  seated — Abra  attending  her. 

Ahra.  Look,  dearest  lady  ! — the  thin  smoke  aspirea 
In  the  calm  air.  as  when  in  happier  times 
It  show'd  the  gods  propitious  :  wilt  thou  seeK 
Thy  chamber,  lest  thy  father  and  his  friends, 
Returning,  find  us  hinderers  of  their  council  1 
She  answers  not — she  hearkens  not — with  jo} 


I 


Sewn:  II.]  ION.  85 

Could  I  believe  her,  for  the  first  time,  sullen ! 
Still  she  is  rapt. 

Enter  Agenor,  l. 
Oh,  speak  to  my  sweet  mistress  ; 
Haply  thy  voice  may  rouse  her. 

Agen.  Dear  Clemanthe, 
Hope  dawns  in  every  omen  ;  we  shall  hail 
Our  tranquil  hours  again. 

Enter  Medon,  Cleon,  Timocles,  and  Others,  u. 

Medon.  Clemanthe  here  ! 
How  sad  !  how  pale  ! 

Ahra.  Her  eye  is  kindling — hush 

Clem.  Hark  !  hear  ye  not  a  distant  footstep  ] 

Medon.  No. 

Look  round,  my  fairest  child  ;  thy  friends  are  near  thee. 

Clem.  Yes!  now 'tis  lost — 'tis  on  that  endless  stair ! 
Nearer  and  more  distinct — 'tis  his — 'tis  his — 
He  lives  !  he  comes  !  [Rises  and  rushes  to  back  of  the  stage, 

at  which  Ion  appears,  c.  and  returns  with  her,  c. 
Here  is  your  messenger, 

Whom  Heaven  has  rescued  from  the  tyrant's  rage 
Ye  sent  him  forth  to  brave.    Rejoice,  old  men, 
That  ye  are  guiltless  of  his  blood ! — why  pause  ye  1 
Why  shout  ye  not  his  welcome  ? 

Medon.  Dearest  girl, 
This  is  no  scene  for  thee ;  go  to  thy  chamber, 
I'll  come  to  thee  ere  long.  [Exeunt  Clemanthe  and  Abba* 
She  is  o'erwrought 

By  fear  and  joy  for  one  whose  infant  hopes 
Were  mingled  with  her  own,  even  as  a  brother's. 

Tim.  Ion! 
How  shall  we  do  thee  honour  ] 

Jon.  None  is  due, 
Save  to  the  gods  whose  gracious  influence  sways 
The  King  ye  deem'd  relentless; — he  consents 
To  meet  ye  presently  in  council : — speed  ; 
This  may  be  nature's  latest  rally  in  him, 
In  fitful  strength,  ere  it  be  quench'd  for  ever ! 

Medon.  Haste  to  your  seats  !  I  will  but  speak  a  word 
With  our  brave  friend,  and  follow  :  though  convened 
in  speed,  let  our  assembly  lack  no  forms 


I 

36  TON.  [Act  n. 

Of  due  observance,  which  to  furious  power 
Plead  with  the  silent  emphasis  of  years. 

\Excunt  all  but  Medon  and  Ion,  l 
Ton,  draw  near  me  ;  this  eventful  day 
Hath  shown  thy  nature's  graces  circled  round 
A V i tii  firmness  which  accomplishes  the  hero  : — 
And  it  would  bring  to  me  but  one  proud  thought — 
That  virtues  which  required  not  culture's  aid 
Shed  their  first  fragrance  'neath  my  roof,  and  there 
Found  shelter ; — but  it  also  hath  reveal'd 
What  I  may  not  hide  from  thee,  that  my  child, 
My  blithe  and  innocent  girl — more  fair  in  soul, 
More  delicate  in  fancy,  than  in  mould — 
Loves  thee  with  other  than  a  sister's  love. 
I  should  have  cared  for  this  :  I  vainly  deem'd 
A  fellowship  in  childhood's  thousand  joys 
And  household  memories  had  nurtured  friendship 
Which  might  hold  blameless  empire  in  the  soul; 
hut  in  that  guise  the  traitor  hath  stolen  in, 
And  the  fair  citadel  is  thine. 

Ion.  'Tis  true. 
I  did  not  think  the  nurseling  of  thy  house 
Could  thus  disturb  its  holiest  inmate's  duty 
With  tale  of  selfish  passion  ; — but  we  met 
As  playmates  who  might  never  meet  again, 
And  then  the  hidden  truth  flash'd  forth  and  show'd 
To  each  the  imao:e  in  the  other's  soul 
In  one  bright  instant. 

Medon.    Be  that  instant  blest 
Which  made  thee  truly  ours.    My  son  !  my  son  ! 
'Tis  we  should  feel  uplifted,  for  the  seal 
Of  greatness  is  upon  thee ;  yet  I  know 
That  when  the  gods,  won  by  thy  virtues,  draw 
The  veil  which  now  conceals  their  lofty  birth-}  lace, 
Triou  wilt  not  spurn  the  maid  who  prized  them  .'owly. 

vm.  Spurn  her !  My  father ! 

Enter  Ctesiphon,  e. 

Medvn.  Ctesiphon! — and  breathless- 
Art  come  to  chide  me  to  the  council  ?  \Cro$su  to  c. 
Ctes.  No; 

To  bring  *jl  wonted  joy  ;  thy  son  approaches, 


SOETTE  II.] 


ION. 


37 


Mcdon.  Thank  Hearen  !  Hast  spoken  with  hi:ja  1  is  ho 
well? 

Ctcs.  I  strove  in  vain  to  reach  him,  for  the  crowd, 
Roused  from  the  untended  couch  and  dismal  hearth 
By  the  strange  visiting  of  hope,  press'd  round  him  ! 
I>ut,  by  his  head  erect  and  fiery  glance, 
I  know  that  he  is  well,  and  that  he  bears 
A  message  which  shall  shake  the  tyrant.  ( Shouts  without.) 
See! 

The  throng  is  tending  this  way — now  it  parts 
And  yields  him  to  thy  arms. 

Enter  Phocion,  l. 

Medon.  Welcome,  my  Phocion — 
Long  waited  for  in  Argos  ;  how  detain'd 
Now  matters  not,  since  thou  art  here  in  joy. 
Hast  brought  the  answer  of  the  god  1 

Pho.  I  have  : 
Now  let  Adrastus  tremble  ! 

Medon.  May  we  hear  it? 

Pho.  T  am  sworn  first  to  utter  it  to  him. 

Ctes.  But  it  is  fatal  to  him  ! — say  but  that ! 

Pho.  Ha,  Ctesiphon  ! — I  mark'd  thee  not  before; 
How  fares  thy  father] 

Ion  {to  Phocion).  Do  not  speak  of  him. 

Ctes.  (overhearing  Ion).  Not  speak  of  him  !  Dost  tk'jik 
there  is  a  moment 
When  common  things  eclipse  the  burning  thought 
Of  him  and  vengeance  1 

Pho.  Has  the  tyrant's  sword — 

Ctes.  No,  Phocion  ;  that  were  merciful  and  brave 
Compared  to  his  base  deed  ;  yet  will  I  teil  it    [crosses  to  C, 
To  make  the  flashing  of  thine  eye  more  deadly, 
And  edge  thy  words  that  they  may  rive  his  heartstrings 
The  last  time  that  Adrastus  dared  to  face 
The  Sages  of  the  state,  although  my  fathei , 
*  ielding  to  nature's  mild  decay,  had  left 
i  ll  worldly  toil  and  hope,  he  gathered  strength, 
[n  his  old  seat  *o  speak  one  word  of  warning. 
Thou  know'st  now  bland  with  years  his  wisdom  gTOW, 
And  with  what  phrases,  steep'd  in  love,  he  sheath'J 
The  sharpness  of  rebuke ;  yet,  ere  his  speech 


38 


ION. 


[Act  II 


Was  closed,  the  tyrant  started  from  his  th  *one, 

And  with  his  base  hand  smote  him  ;— 'twas  his  deah 'Stroke ! 

The  old  man  tottered  home,  and  only  once 

Raised  his  head  after. 

Plw.  Thou  wert  absent  1  Yes! 
The  royal  miscreant  lives. 

Cles.  Had  I  beheld 
That  sacrilege,  the  tyrant  had  lain  dead, 
Or  I  had  been  torn  piecemeal  by  his  minions. 
But  I  was  far  away ;  when  I  return 'd, 
I  found  my  father  on  the  nearest  bench 
Within  our  door,  his  thinly  silver'd  head 
Supported  by  wan  hands,  which  hid  his  face, 
And  would  not  be  withdrawn  ;  no  groan,  no  sigh 
Was  audible,  and  we  might  only  learn, 
By  short  convulsive  tremblings  of  his  frame, 
That  life  still  flicker'd  in  it — yet  at  last, 
By  some  unearthly  inspiration  roused, 
He  dropp'd  his  wither'd  hands,  and  sat  erect 
As  in  his  manhood's  glory — the  free  blood 
Flush'd  crimson  through  his  cheeks,  his  furrow'd  brow 
Expanded  clear,  and  his  eyes  opening  ftril, 
Gleam'd  with  a  youthful  fire  ; — I  fell  in  awe 
Upon  my  knees  before  him — still  he  spake  not, 
But  slowly  raised  his  arm  untrembling;  clench'd 
His  hand  as  if  it  grasp'd  an  airy  knife, 
And  struck  in  air  :  my  hand  was  join'd  with  his 
In  nervous  grasp — my  lifted  eye  met  his 
In  steadfast  gaze — my  pressure  answer'd  his — 
We  knew  at  once  each  other's  thought;  a  smile 
Of  the  old  sweetness  play'd  upon  his  lips, 
And  life  forsook  him.    Weaponless  I  flew 
To  seek  the  tyrant,  and  was  driven  with  scoffs 
From  the  proud  gates  which  shelter  him.    He  lives^— 
And  I  am  here  to  babble  of  revenge  ! 

PLo.  It  comes,  my  friend — haste  with  me  to  the  king! 

Ion.  Even  while  we  speak,  Adrastus  meets  his  council 
There  let  us  seek  him  .  should  ye  find  him  touch'd 
With  penitence,  as  happily  ye  may, 
OJi,  give  allowance  to  his  softened  nature  ! 

Ctes.  Show  grace  to  him  !  —  Dost  dare  1 — I  had  forgot. 


8CEOTC  II.] 


ION. 


39 


Thou  dost  not  know  how  a  son  loves  a  futhei ! 

Ian.    I  know  enough  to  feel  for  thee;  I  know 
Thou  hast  endured  the  vilest  wrongs  that  tyranny 
In  its  worst  frenzy  can  inflict ; — yet  think, 
O  think  !  before  the  irrevocable  deed 
Shuts  out  all  thought,  how  much  of  power's  excess 
Is  theirs  who  raise  the  idol : — do  we  groan 
Beneath  the  personal  force  of  this  rash  man, 
Who  forty  summers  since  hung  at  the  breast 
A  playful  weakling ;  whom  the  heat  unnerves  ; 
The  north- wind  pierces  ;»and  the  hand  of  death 
May,  in  a  moment,  change,  to  clay  as  vile 
As  that  of  the  scourged  slave  whose  chains  it  severs  1 
No  !  'tis  our  weakness  gasping,  or  the  shows 
Of  outward  strength  that  builds  up  tyranny, 
And  makes  it  look  so  glorious  : — If  we  shrink 
Faint-hearted  from  the  reckoning  of  our  span 
Of  mortal  days,  we  pamper  the  fond  wish 
For  long  duration  in  a  line  of  kings  : 
If  the  rich  pageantry  of  thoughts  must  fade, 
All  unsubstantial  as  the  regal  hues 
Of  eve  which  purpled  them,  our  cunning  frailtv 
Must  robe  a  living  image  with  their  pomp, 
And  wreathe  a  diadem  around  its  brow, 
In  which  our  sunny  fantasies  may  live 
"Empearl'd,  and  gleam,  in  fatal  splendour,  far 
On  after  ages.    We  must  look  within 
For  that  which  makes  us  slaves  ; — on  sympathies 
Which  find  no  kindred  objects  in  the  plain 
Of  common  life — affections  that  aspire 
In  air  too  thin — and  fancy's  dewy  film 
Floating  for  rest  •  for  even  such  delicate  threads, 
Gather'd  by  fate's  engrossing  hand,  supply 
The  eternal  spindle  whence  she  weaves  the  bond 
Of  cable  strength  in  which  our  nature  struggles  ! 

Ctes  Go,  talk  to  others,  if  thou  wilt; — to  me 
All  argument,  save  that  of  steel,  is  idle. 

Medon.  No  more  ; — let's  tc  the  council — there,  my  sea. 
Tell  thy  great  message  nobly  ;  and  for  thee, 
Poor  orphan'd  youth,  be  sure  the  gods  are  just !  \Exeunt  u 


40 


ION 


[Act  II 


Scene  III. —  The  great  Square  of  the  City.  Adrastus 
seated  on  a  throne  ;  Agenor,  Tihiocles,  Cleon,  and  others, 
seated  as  Councillors — Sdldiers  line  the  Stage  at  a  distance. 

Adras.  Upon  your  summons,  Sages,  I  am  here ; 
Your  king  attends  to  know  your  pleasure;  speak  it. 

Agen.  And  canst  thou  ask  !  if  the  heart  dead  within  thee 
Receives  no  impress  of  this  awful  time, 
Art  thou  of  sense  forsaken  ?    Are  thine  ears 
So  charm 'd  by  strains  of  slavish  minstrelsy, 
That  the  dull  groan  and  frenzy-pfeinted  shriek 
Pass  them  unheard  to  Heaven  1    Or  are  thine  eyes 
So  conversant  with  prodigies  of  grief, 
They  cease  to  dazzle  at  them  1    Art  thou  arm'd 
'Gainst  wonder,  while,  in  all  things,  Nature  turns 
To  dreadful  contraries ; — while  Youth's  full  cheek 
Is  shrivell'd  into  furrows  of  sad  years, 
And  'neath  its  glossy  curls  untinged  by  care 
Looks  out  a  keen  anatomy  ; — while  Age 
Is  stung  by  feverish  torture  for  an  hour 
Into  youth's  strength  ;  while  fragile  Womanhood 
Starts  into  frightful  courage,  all  unlike 
The  gentle  strength  its  gentle  weakness  feeds, 
To  make  affliction  beautiful,  and  stalks 
Abroad,  a  tearless  and  unshuddering  thing ; — 
While  Childhood,  in  its  orphan'd  freedom  blithe, 
Finds,  in  the  shapes  of  wretchedness  which  seem 
Grotesque  to  its  unsadden'd  vision,  cause 
For  dreadful  mirth,  that  shortly  shall  be  hush'd 
In  never-broken  silence  ;  and  while  Love, 
Immortal  through  all  change,  makes  ghastly  Death 
Its  idol,  and  with  furious  passion  digs 
Amid  sepulchral  images  for  gauds 
To  cheat  its  fancy  with  ] — Do  sights  like  these 
Clare  through  the  realm  thou  shouldst  be  parent  to, 
And  canst  thou  find  the  voice  to  ask  "out  pleasure  V* 
Adras.  Cease,  babbler ; — wherefore  would  ye  stun  my 
ears 

With  vain  lecitalof  the  griefs  I  know, 
And  cannot  heal  1 — will  treason  turn  aside 
The  shafts  of  fate,  or  medicine  Nature-'s  ills  1 


Bern  III.] 


ION. 


I  have  no  skill  in  pharmacy,  nor  uower 
To  sway  the  elements. 

Agcn.  Thou  hast  the  power 
To  cast  thyself  upon  the  earth  with  us 
In  penitential  shame  :  or,  if  this  power 
Hath  left  a  heart  made  weak  by  luxury 
And  hard  by  pride,  thou  hast  at  least  the  power 
To  cease  the  mockery  of  thy  frantic  revels. 

Adras.  I  have  yet  power  to  punish  insult — look 
I  use  it  not,  Agenor ' — Fate  may  dash 
My  sceptre  from  me,  but  shall  not  command 
My  will  to  hold  it  with  a  feebler  grasp  ; 
Nay,  if  few  hours  of  empire  yet  are  mine, 
They  shall  be  colour'd  v/ith  a  sterner  pride, 
And  peopled  with  more  lustrous  joys,  than  flush*  d 
In  the  serene  procession  of  its  greatness, 
Which  look'd  perpetual,  as  the  flowing  course 
Of  human  things.    Have  ye  beheld  a  pine 
That  clasp'd  the  mountain-summit  with  a  root 
As  firm  as  its  rough  marble,  and,  apart 
From  the  huge  shade  of  undistinguish'd  trees, 
Lifted  its  head  as  in  delisrht  to  share 

o 

The  evening  glories  of  the  sky,  and  taste 

The  wanton  dalliance  of  the  heavenly  breeze, 

That  no  ignoble  vapour  from  the  vale 

Could  mingle  with — smit  by  the  flaming  marl, 

And  lighted  for  destruction  1    How  it  stood 

One  glorious  moment,  fringed  and  wreathed  with  firs 

Which  show'd  the  inward  graces  of  its  shape, 

(Jncumber'd  now,  and  midst  its  topmost  boughs, 

That  young  Ambition's  airy  fancies  made 

Their  giddy  nest,  leap'd  sportive  ; — never  clad 

By  liberal  summer  in  a  pomp  so  rich 

As  waited  on  its  downfall,  while  it  took 

The  storm-cloud  roll'd  behind  it  for  a  curtain, 

To  gird  its  splendours  round,  and  made  the  blast 

Its  minister  to  whirl  its  flashing  shreds 

Aloft  towards  heaven,  or  to  the  startled  dep&s 

Of  forests  that  afar  might  share  its  doom  ! 

So  shall  the  royalty  of  Argcs  pass 

Ib  festal  blaze  to  darkness  t  Have  ye  spoken 


42 


Agen.  I  speak  no  more  to  thee! — Great  Jcve,  look 

down !  [Shouts  without. 

Adras.  What  factious  brawl  is  this  1  disperse  it,  soldiers 
[Shouting  renewed. — As  some  of  the  soldiers  are  about  to  march, 
Phocion  rushes  in,  followed  by  Ctesiphon,  Ion  and  Medon 
Whence  is  this  insolent  intrusion'? 

Pho.  King! 
[  bear  Apollo's  answer  to  thy  prayer. 

Adras.  Has  not  thy  travel  taught  thy  knee  its  duty  1 
Here  we  had  school'd  thee  better. 

Pho.  Kneel  to  thee  !  •* 

Medon.  Patience,  my  son  !    Do  homage  to  the  king. 

Pho.  Never !— Thou  talk'st  of  schooling— know,  Adrastus 
That  I  have  studied  in  a  nobler  school, 
Than  the  dull  haunt  of  venal  sophistry, 
Or  the  lewd  guard-room  ; — o'er  which  ancient  Heaven 
Extends  its  arch  for  all,  and  mocks  the  span 
Of  palaces  and  dungeons;  where  the  heart 
In  its  free  beatings,  'neath  the  coarsest  vest, 
Claims  kindred  with  diviner  things  than  power 
Of  kings  can  raise  or  stifle — in  the  school 
Of  mighty  Nature — where  I  leam'd  to  blush 
At  sight  like  this,  of  thousands  basely  hush'd 
Before  a  man  no  mightier  than  themselves, 
Save  in  the  absence  of  that  love  that  softens. 

Adras.  Peace  !  speak  thy  message. 

Pho.  Shall  I  tell  it  here  ! 
Or  shall  I  seek  thy  couch  at  dead  of  night, 
And  breathe  it  in  low  whispers ! — As  thou  wilt. 

Adras.  Here — and  this  instant ! 

Pho.  Hearken  then,  Adrastus, 
And  hearken,  Argives — thus  Apollo  speaks  : — 
( Reads  a  scroll)  "  Argos  ne'er  shall  find  release 

Till  her  monarch's  race  shall  cease." 

Adras.  'Tis  not  God's  will,  but  man's  sedition  speaks 
Guards!  tear  that  lying  parchment  from  Irs  hands, 
Aiid  bear  him  to  the  palace. 

Medon.  Touch  him  not, — 
He  is  Apollo's  messenger,  whose  lips 
Were  never  stain'd  with  falsehood. 

Pho  Come  on.  all ! 


ficxmc  HI.] 


ON. 


43 


Agcn.  Surround  him,  friends  !  Die  with  him  / 
Adras.  Soldiers,  charge 
TJpon  these  rebels- ;  hew  them  down.    On  !  on ! 

[The  Soldiers  advance  and  surround  the  people:  they 
teize  Phocion.  Ion  rushes from  the  back  of  the  stage,  and 
throws  himself  between  Adras tus  and  Phocion. 

Pho.  (to  Adrastus.)  Yet  I  defy  thee. 

Ion.  (to  Phocion.)  Friend  !  fyr  sake  of  all, 
Enrage  him  not — wait  while  I  speak  a  word — 
My  sovereign,  I  implore  thee,  do  not  stain  [  To  Adrastus 
This  sacred  place  with  blood  :  in  Heaven's  great  name 
I  do  conjure  thee — and  in  hers,  whose  spirit 
Is  mourning  for  thee  now  ! 

Adras.  Release  the  stripling — 
Let  him  go  spread  his  treason  where  he  will. 
He  is  not  worth  my  anger.    To  the  palace  ! 

Ion.  Nay,  yet  an  instant ! — let  my  speech  have  power 
From  Heaven  to  move  thee  further :  thou  hast  heard 
Tne  sentence  of  the  god,  and  thy  heart  owns  it ; 
If  thou  wilt  cast  aside  this  cumbrous  pomp, 
And  in  seclusion  purify  thy  soul 
Long  fever'd  and  sophisticate,  the  gods 
May  give  thee  space  for  penitential  thoughts ; 
If  not — as  surely  as  thou  standest  here, 
Wilt  thou  lie  stiff  and  weltering  in  thy  blood, — 
The  vision  presses  on  me  now. 

Adras.  Art  mad  ] 
Resign  my  state  1  Sue  to  the  gods  for  life, 
The  common  life  which  every  slave  endures, 
And  meanly  clings  to  ?    No ;  within  yon  walls 
I  shall  resume  the  banquet,  never  more 
Broken  by  man's  intrusion.  Councillors, 
Farewell ! — go  mutter  treason  till  ye  perish  ! 

[Exeunt  Adrastus,  Crythes  and  Soldiers,  l. 

Ian.  ( stands  apart  leaning  on  a  pedestal. J  'Tis  seal'd ! 

Medon.  Let  us  withdraw,  and  strive 
I3y  sacrifice  to  pacify  the  gods  !       [Medon,  Agenc  r,  and 
Couw  ilhrs  retire  ;  they  leave  Ctesiphon,  Phocion  and 
[on.  Ion  still  stands  apart,  as  rapt  in  meditation. 


44 


ION. 


[Act  II. 


Ctes.  'Tis  well ;  the  measure  of  his  guilt  is  fiJL'd. 
Where  shall  we  meet  at  sunset1? 

Pho  In  the  grove 
Which  with  its  matted  shade  imbrowns  the  vale  : 
Between  those  buttresses  of  rock  that  guard 
The  sacred  mountain  on  its  western  side, 
Stai.ds  a  rude  altar — overgrown  with  moss, 
And  stain'd  with  drippings  of  a  million  showers, 
So  old,  that  no  tradition«aames  the  power 
That  hallow'd  it, — which  we  will  consecrate 
Anew  to  freedom  and  to  justice. 

Ctcs.  Thither, 
Will  I  bring  friends  to  meet  thee.    Shall  we  speak 
To  yon  rapt  youth  1  \ Pointing  to  Ion 

Pho.  His  nature  is  too  gentle. 
At  sunset  we  will  meet. — With  arms  % 

Ctes.  A  knife — 
One  sacrificial  knife  will  serve. 

Pho.  At  sunset !    [Exeunt  Ctesiphon  r.  Phocion  c.l, 

Jon  (comes  forward).  O,  wretched  man,  thy  words  have 
seal'd  thy  doom  ! 
"Why  should  I  shiver  at  it,  when  no  way, 
Save  this,  remains  to  break  the  ponderous  clcud 
That  hangs  above  my  wretched  country  1 — death— 
A  single  death,  the  common  lot  of  all. 
Which  it  will  not  be  mine  to  look  upon, — 
And  yet  its  ghastly  shape  dilates  before  me  ; 
I  cannot  shut  it  out ;  my  thoughts  grow  rigid, 
And  as  that  grim  and  prostrato  figure  haunts  them 
My  sinews  stiffen  like  it.    Courage,  Ion  ! 
No  spectral  form  is  here ;  all  outward  things 
Wear  their  own  old  familiar  looks  ;  no  dye 
Pollutes  them.    Yet  the  air  has  scent  of  blood, 
And  now  it  eddies  with  a  hurtling  sound, 
As  if  some  W3apon  swiftly  clove  it.    No — 
The  falchion's  course  is  silent  as  the  grave 
That  yawns  before  its  victim.    Gracious  powers ! 
It  the  great  duty  of  my  life  be  near, 
Grant  it  may  be  to  suffer,  not  to  strike  !  f Exat,  el 


END  OF  ACT  II. 


Son  I.] 


ION 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — A  Terrace  of  tie  Temple. 

Enter  Clemanthe  and  Ion.  r. 

Clem.  Nay,  I  must  chide  this  sorrow  from  thy  brow, 
Or  'twill  rebuke  my  happiness ; — I  know 
Too  well  the  miseries  that  hem  us  round; 
And  yet  the  inward  sunshine  of  my  soul, 
Unclouded  by  their  melancholy  shadows, 
Bathes  in  its  deep  tranquillity  one  image — 
One  only  image,  which  no  outward  storm 
Can  ever  ruffle.    Let  me  wean  thee,  then, 
From  this  vain  pondering  o'er  the  general  woe, 
Which  makes  my  joy  look  ugly. 

Ion.  No,  my  fair  one, 
The  gloom  that  wrongs  thy  love  is  unredeem'd 
By  generous  sense  of  others'  woe ;  too  sure 
It  rises  from  dark  presages  within, 
And  will  not  from  me. 

Clem.  Then  it  is  most  groundless  ! 
Hast  thou  not  won  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 
By  constancy,  the  fame  of  which  shall  live 
While  a  heart  beats  in  Argos  1 — hast  thou  not 
Upon  one  agitated  bosom  pour'd 
The  sweetest  peace  1  and  can  thy  generous  nature* 
While  it  thus  sheds  felicity  around  it, 
Remain  itself  unbless'd  1 

Ion.  I  strove  awhile 
To  think  the  assured  possession  of  thy  love 
With  too  divine  a  burthen  weigh'd  my  heart, 
And  press'd  my  spirits  down  : — but  'tis  not  so ; 
Nor  will  I  with  false  tenderness  beguile  thee, 
By  feigning  that  my  sadness  has  a  cause 
So  exquisite  !    Clemanthe  !  thou  wilt  find  me 
A  sad  companion ; — I  who  knew  not  life, 
Save  as  the  sportive  breath  of  happiness, 
Now  feel  my  minutes  teeming,  as  they  rise, 
With  grave  experiences  ;  I  dream  no  more 


V 


46  ION.  [Act  I  a 

Of  azure  realms  where  restless  beauty  sports 

In  myriad  shapes  fantastic ;  dismal  vaults 

In  black  succession  open,  till  the  gloom 

Afar  is  broken  by  a  streak  of  fire 

That  shapes  my  name — the  fearful  wind  that  moans 

Before  the  storm  articulates  its  sound ; 

And  as  I  pass'd  but  now  the  solemn  range 

Of  Argive  monarchs,  that  in  sculptured  mockery 

Of  present  empire  sit,  their  eyes  of  stone 

Bent  on  me  instinct  with  a  frightful  life, 

That  drew  me  into  fellowship  with  them, 

As  conscious  marble  ;  while  their  ponderous  lips-  • 

Fit  organs  of  eternity — unclosed, 

And,  as  I  live  to  tell  thee,  murmur'd,  "  Hail ! 

Hail!  Ion  the  devoted!" 

Clem.  These  are  fancies, 
Which  thy  soul,  late  expanded  with  great  purpose, 
Shapes,  as  it  quivers  to  its  natural  circle 
In  which  its  joys  should  lurk,  as  in  the  bud 
The  cells  of  fragrance  cluster.    Bid  them  from  theo, 
And  strive  to  be  thyself. 

Ion.  I  will  do  so  ! 
I'll  gaze  upon  thy  loveliness,  and  drink 
Its  quiet  in  ; — how  beautiful  thou  art ! — 
My  pulse  throbs  now  as  it  was  wont ; — a  being 
Which  owns  so  fair  a  glass  to  mirror  it, 
Cannot  show  darkly. 

Clem.  We  shall  soon  be  happy ;  * 
My  father  will  rejoice  to  bless  our  love, 
And  Argos  waken  ; — for  her  tyrant's  course 
Must  have  a  speedy  end. 

Ion.  It  must !  It  must ! 

Clem.  Yes ;  for  no  empty  talk  of  public  wrongs 
Assails  him  now ;  keen  hatred  and  revenge 
Are  roused  to  crush  him. 

Ion.  Not  by  such  base  agents 
May  the  august  lustration  be  achieved  : 
He  who  shall  cleanse  his  country  from  the  guilt 
For  which  Heaven  smites  her,  should  be  pure  of  soul 
Guileless  as  infancy,  and  undisturb'd 
By  personal  anger  as  thy  father  is, 


iCKVE  I.] 


ION. 


When,  with  unswerving  hand  and  piteov.s  eye, 
He  stops  the  brief  life  of  the  innocent  kid 
Bound  with  white  fillets  to  the  altar ; — so 
En  wreathed  by  fate  the  royal  victim  heaves, 
And  soon  his  breast  shall  shrink  beneath  the  knife 
Of  the  selected  slayer ! 

Clem.  'Tis  thyself 
Whom  thy  strange  language  pictures — Ion  !  thou — 

Ion.  She  has  said  it !  Her  pure  lips  have  spoken  out 
What  all  things  intimate  : — didst  thou  not  mark 
Me  for  the  office  of  avenger — me  ? 

Clem.  No  ; — save  from  the  wild  picture  that  thy  fancy 
Thy  o'erwrought  fancy  drew ;  I  thought  it  look'd 
Too  like  thee,  and  I  shudder'd. 

Ion.  So  do  I  ! 
And  yet  I  almost  wish  I  shudder'd  more, 
For  the  dire  thought  has  grown  familiar  with  me — 
Could  I  escape  it ! 

Clem.  'Twill  away  in  sleep. 

Ion.  No,  no  !  I  dare  not  sleep — for  well  I  know 
That  then  the  knife  will  gleam,  the  blood  will  gush, 
The  form  will  stiffen  ! — I  will  walk  awhile 
In  the  sweet  evening  light,  and  try  to  chase 
These  fearful  images  away. 

Clem.  Let  me 
Go  with  thee.    Oh,  how  often,  hand  in  hand, 
In  such  a  lovely  light  have  we  roam'd  westward 
Aimless  and  blessed ;  when  we  were  no  more 
Than  playmates  : — surely  we  are  not  grown  stranger 
Since  yesterday  ! 

Ion.  No,  dearest,  not  to-night : 
The  plague  yet  rages  fiercely  in  the  vale, 
And  I  am  placed  in  grave  commission  here 
To  watch  the  gates  ; — indeed,  thou  must  not  pasa ; 
I  will  oe  merrier  when  we  meet  again, — 
Trust  me,  my  love,  I  will ;  farewell !  f  Exit, 

Clem.  Farewell,  then  ! 
How  fearful  disproportion  shows  in  one 
Whose  life  hath  been  all  harmony  !    He  bends 
Toward  that  thick  covert  where  in  blessed  hour 
•My  father  found  him,  which  has  ever  been 


48 


ION. 


His  chosen  place  of  musing.    Shall  I  follow  t 

Am  I  already  grown  a  selfish  mistress, 

To  watch  his  solitude  with  jealous  eye, 

And  claim  him  all  1    Tha'.  let  me  never  be — 

Yet  danger  from  within  besets  him  now, 

Known  to  me  only — I  will  follow  him  !  [Extf,  l 

Scene  II. — An  opening  in  a  deep  Wood — in  front  ai»  2d 
gray  Altar. 

Enter  Ion. 

Ion.  O  winding  pathways,  o'er  whose  scanty  blades 
Of  unaspiring  grass  mine  eyes  have  bent 
So  often  when  by  musing  fancy  sway'd, 
That  craved  alliance  with  no  wider  scene 
Than  your  fair  thickets  border'd,  but  was  pleased 
To  deem  the  toilsome  years  of  manhood  flown, 
And,  on  the  pictured  mellowness  of  age 
Idly  reflective,  image  my  return 
From  careful  wanderings,  to  find  ye  gleam 
With  unchanged  aspect  on  a  heart  unchanged, 
And  melt  the  busy  past  to  a  sweet  dream 
As  then  the  future  was  ; — why  should  ye  now 
Echo  my  steps  with  melancholy  sound, 
As  ye  were  conscious  of  a  guilty  presence  ] 
The  lovely  light  of  eve,  that,  as  it  waned, 
Touch'd  ye  with  softer,  homelier  look,  now  fades 
In  dismal  blackness  ;  and  yon  twisted  roots 
Of  ancient  trees,  with  whose  fantastic  forms 
My  thoughts  grew  humourous,  look  terrible, 
As  if  about  to  start  to  serpent  life, 
And  hiss  around  me  ; — whither  shall  I  turn  ] — 
Where  fly  1 — I  see  the  myrtle-cradled  spot 
Where  human  love,  instructed  by  divine, 
Found  and  embraced  me  first ;  I'll  cast  me  down 
Upon  the  eaith  as  on  a  mother's  breast, 
In  hope  to  feel  myself  again  a  child. 

[Retires  into  ih  e  wood, 

Enter  Ctesiphon,  Cassander,  and  other  Argive  Youths. 

Ctes.  Sure  this  must  be  the  place  that  Phocion  spoke  of  ;~ 
Vhe  twilight  deepens,  yet  he  does  not  come- 


Uem  II] 


ION. 


Oh,  if,  insteal  of  idle  dreams  of  freedom, 
He  knew  the  sharpness  of  a  grief  like  mine, 
He  would  not  linger  thus  ! 

Cass.  The  sun's  broad  disk 
Of  misty  red,  a  few  brief  minutes  since, 
Sank  'neath  the  leaden  wave  ;  but  night  steals  )U 
With  rapid  pace  to  veil  us,  and  thy  thoughts 
Are  eager  as  the  favouring  darkness.  % 

Enter  Phocion. 

Ctes.  Welcome  ! 
Thou  know'st  all  here. 

Pho.  Yes ;  I  rejoice,  Cassander, 
To  find  thee  my  companion  in  a  deed 
Worthy  of  all  the  dreamings  of  old  days, 
When  we,  two  rebel  youths,  grew  safely  brave 
In  visionary  perils.    We'll  not  shame 
Our  young  imaginations.  Ctesiphon, 
We  look  to  thee  for  guidance  in  our  aim. 

Ctes.  I  bring  you  glorious  news.    There  is  a  soldief, 
Who,  in  his  reckless  boyhood,  was  my  comrade, 
And  though  by  taste  of  luxury  subdued 
Even  to  brook  the  tyrant's  service,  burns 
With  generous  anger  to  avenge  that  grief 
I  bear  above  all  others.    He  has  made 
The  retribution  sure.    From  him  I  learnt, 
That  when  Adrastus  reached  his  palace  court, 
He  paused,  to  struggle  with  some  mighty  throe 
Of  passion  ;  then  call'd  eagerly  for  wine, 
And  bade  his  soldiers  share  his  choicest  stores, 
And  snatch,  like  him,  a  day  from  Fortune.  Soon, 
As  one  worn  out  by  watching  and  excess, 
He  stagger'd  to  his  couch,  where  now  he  lies 
Oppress'd  with  heavy  sleep,  while  his  loose  soldiera, 
Made  by  the  fierce  carousal  vainly  mad 
Or-  grossly  dull,  are  scatter'd  through  the  courts 
Unarm'd  and  cautionless.    The  eastern  portal 
Is  at  this  moment  open  ;  by  that  gate 
We  all  may  enter  unperceived,  and  line 
The  passages  which  gird  the  royal  chamber, 
While  o  le  blest  hand  within  completes  the  dc  om 


60 


ION. 


I  ICTlI) 


Which  Heaven  pronounces.    Nothing  now  remains. 

Hut  that,  as  all  would  share  this  action's  glory, 
We  join  in  one  great  vow,  and  choose  one  arm 
Our  common  minister.    Oh,  if  these  sorrows 
Confer  on  me  the  office  to  return 
Upon  the  tyrant's  shivering  heart  the  blow 
Which  crush'd  my  father's  spirit,  I  will  leave 
To  him  who  cares  for  toys  the  patriot's  laurel 
And  the  applause  of  ages  ! 

P/io.  Let  the  gods 
By  the  old  course  of  lot  reveal  the  name 
Of  the  predestined  champion.    For  myself, 
Here  do  I  solemnly  devote  all  powers 
Of  soul  and  body  to  that  glorious  purpose 
We  live  but  to  fulfil. 

Ctes.  And  1 ! 

Cass.  And  I  ! 

Ion.  {who  has  advanced  from  the  wood,  rushes  to  t/ie  altai 
and,  exclaims)  And  I ! 

Pho.  Most  welcome  !  The  serenest  powers  of  justice, 
In  prompting  thy  unspotted  soul  to  join 
Our  bloody  councils,  sanctify  and  bless  them  ! 

Ion.  The  gods  have  prompted  me  ;  for  they  have  given 
One  dreadful  voice  to  all  things  which  should  be 
Else  dumb  or  musical ;  and  I  rejoice 
To  step  from  the  grim  round  of  waking  dreams 
Into  this  fellowship  which  makes  all  clear. 
Wilt  trust  me,  Ctesiphon  1 

Ctes.  Yes  ;  but  we  waste 
The  precious  minutes  in  vain  talk  ;  if  lots 
Must  guide  us,  have  ye  scrolls  ] 

Pho.  Cassander  has  them  ; 
The  flickering  light  of  yonder  glade  will  serve  him 
To  inscribe  them  with  our  names.    Be  quick,  Cassander  ! 

Ctes.  I  wear  a  casque,  beneath  whose  iron  circlet 
My  father's  dark  hairs  whiten'd  ;  let  it  hold 
The  name*  of  his  avengers  ! 

[Ctesiphon  uJces  off  his  hcmlet  omd  gives  it  to  Cassandeh. 

who  retires  with  it  u. 

Pho  (to  Ctesiphon.)  He  whose  name 


SCZKE  I.J 


ION. 


Thou  shalt  draw  first  sliali  fill  the  post  of  glory. 
Were  it  not  also  well,  the  second  name 
Should  designate  another,  charged  to  take 
The  same  great  office,  if  the  first  should  'eave 
His  work  imperfect  ] 

Ctes.  There  can  scarce  oe  need  ; 
Yet  as  thou  wilt.    May  the  first  chance  be  mine  ! 
L  will  leave  little  for  a  second  arm  ! 

[Cassander  returns  with  the  helmet 

Ctes.  Now,  gods,  decide  ! 

[Ctesiphon  draws  a  lot  from  the  helmet 

Pho.  The  name  !  Why  dost  thou  pause  1 

Ctes.  'Tis  Ion! 

Ion.  Well  I  knew  it  would  be  mine  ! 

[Ctesiphon  draws  another  lot. 

Ctes.  Phocion  !  it  will  be  thine  to  strike  him  dead 
If  he  should  prove  faint-hearted. 

Pho.  With  my  life 
I'll  answer  for  his  constancy. 

Ctes.  (to  Ion.)  Thy  hand ! 
Tis  cold  as  death. 

Ion.  Yes.  but  it  is  as  firm. 
What  ceremony  next  1 

[Ctesiphon  leads  Ion  to  the  altar,  and  gives  him  a  knife. 

Ctes.  Receive  this  steel, 
For  ages  dedicate  in  my  sad  home 
To  sacrificial  uses ;  grasp  it  nobly, 
And  consecrate  it  to  untrembling  service 
Against  the  king  of  Argos  and  his  race. 

Ion.  Hi3  race  !  Is  he  not  left  alone  on  earth  ? 
He  hath  no  brother,  and  no  child. 

Ctes.  Such  words 
The  god  hath  used,  who  never  speaks  in  vain. 

Pho.  There  were  old  rumours  of  an  infant  born, 
And  strangely  vanishing  ; — a  tale  of  guilt 
H  alf  hush'd,  perchance  distorted  in  the  hushing, 
And  by  the  wise  scarce  heeded,  for  they  deem'd  it 
One  of  a  thousand  guilty  histories, 
Which,  if  the  walls  of  palaces  could  speak, 
Would  show  that,  nursed  by  prideful  luxury. 
To  pamper  which  the  virtuous  peasant  toils, 


62 


ION. 


[Act  III 


Crimes  grow  unpunished,  which  the  pirate's  nest, 
Or  want's  foul  hovel,  or  the  cell  which  justice 
Keeps  for  unlicensed  guilt,  would  startle  at ! 
We  must  root  out  the  stock,  that  no  stray  scion 
Renew  the  tree,  whose  branches,  stifling  virtue, 
Shed  poison-dews  on  joy. 

[Ion  approaches  the  altar,  and  I  if  ting  up  the  knife,  speaks 
— Ye  eldest  gods, 
Who  in  no  statues  of  exactest  form 
Are  palpable  ;  who  shun  the  azure  heights 
Of  beautiful  Olympus,  and  the  sound 
Of  ever-young  Apollo's  minstrelsy  ; 
Yet,  mindful  of  the  empire  which  ye  held 
Over  dim  Chaos,  keep  revengeful  watch 
On  falling  nations,  and  on  kingly  lines 
About  to  sink  forever  ;  ye,  who  shed 
Into  the  passions  of  earth's  giant  brood 
And  their  fierce  usages  the  sense  of  justice; 
Who  clothe  the  fated  battlements  of  tyranny 
With  blackness  as  a  funeral  pall,  and  breathe 
Through  the  proud  halls  of  time-embolden'd  guilt 
Portents  of  ruin,  hear  me  ! — In  your  presence, 
For  now  I  feel  ye  nigh,  I  dedicate 
This  arm  to  the  destruction  of  the  king 
And  of  his  race  !    Oh  !  keep  me  pitiless  ; 
Expel  all  human  weakness  from  my  frame, 
That  this  keen  weapon  shake  not  when  his  heart 
Should  feel  its  point ;  and  if  he  has  a  child 
Whose  blood  is  needful  to  the  sacrifice 
My  country  asks,  harden  my  soul  to  shed  it ! — 
Was  not  that  thunder1? 

Ctes.  No;  I  heard  no  sound. 
Now,  mark  me,  Ion  '     Thou  shalt  straight  be  led 
To  the  king's  chamber  ;  we  shall  be  at  hand  ; 
Nothing  can  give  thee  pause.    Hold  !  one  should  watch 
The  city's  eastern  portal,  lest  the  troops, 
Returning  from  the  work  of  plunder  home, 
Surround  us  unprepared.    Be  that  thy  duty. 

[  To  PlIOCION 

PJw.  I  am  to  second  Ion  if  he  fail. 

Ctes  He  cannot  fail ; — I  shall  be  nigh.    What,  Ion ! 


SCEICE  II.] 


ION. 


53 


Ion.  Who  spake  to  mel   Where  am  I  %    Friends,  your 
pardon : 

1  am  prepared  ;  yet  grant  me  for  a  moment, 
One  little  moment,  to  be  left  alone. 

Ctcs.  Be  brief  then,  or  the  season  of  revenge 
Will  pass.    At  yonder  thicket  we'll  expect  thee. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Ion,  l. 

Ian.  Methinks  I  breathe  more  freely,  now  my  lot 
Is  palpable,  and  mortals  gird  me  round, 
Though  my  soul  owns  no  sympathy  with  theirs. 
Some  one  approaches — I  must  hide  this  knife — 
Hide  !  I  have  ne'er  till  now  had  aught  to  hide 
From  any  human  eye.       [He  conceals  the  knife  in  his  vvtt, 

Enter  Clemanthe,  u.  e.  l. 

Clemanthe  here  ! 

Clem.  Forgive  me  that  I  break  upon  thee  thus  : 
*     I  meant  to  watch  thy  steps  unseen  ;  but  night 
Is  thickening ;  thou  art  haunted  by  sad  fancies 
And  'tis  more  terrible  to  think  upon  thee, 
Wandering  with  such  companions  in  thy  bosom, 
Than  in  the  peril  thou  art  wont  to  seek 
Beside  the  bed  of  death. 

Ion.  Death,  say'st  thou  1    Death  ] 
Is  it  not  righteous  when  the  gods  decree  it? 
And  brief  its  sharpest  agony]    Yet,  fairest, 
It  is  no  theme  for  thee.    Go  in  at  once, 
And  think  of  it  no  more. 

Clem.  Not  without  thee  ! 
Indeed,  thou  art  not  we'll ;  thy  hands  are  marble ; 
Thine  eyes  are  fixed ;  let  me  support  thee,  love — 
Ha  !  what  is  that  gleaming  within  thy  vest  ? 
A  knife  !  Tell  me  its  purpose,  Ion  ! 

Ion.  No  ; 
My  oath  forbids. 

Clem.  An  oath  !    Oh,  gentle  Ion, 
What  can  have  link'd  thee  to  a  cause  which  needs 
A  stronger  cement  than  a  good  man's  word  ? 
There's  danger  in  it.    Wilt  thou  keep  it  from  me  ? 

Ion.  Alas  I  must.    Thou  wilt  know  all  full  soon — 

f  Voices  without  call  "  Ion  ! n  I* 


64 


ION. 


[Act  III 


Hark  !    I  am  call'd. 

Clem.  Nay,  tlo  not  leave  me  thus. 

Ion  'Tis  very  sad  [voices  again) — I  dare  not  stay — 

farewell  !  [Exit,  1st.  I.  L 

Clem.  It  must  be  to  Adrastus  that  he  hastes  ! 
If  by  his  hand  the  fated  tyrant  die, 
Austere  remembrance  of  the  deed  will  hang 
Upon  his  delicate  spirit  like  a  cloud, 
Ami  tinge  its  world  of  happy  images 
With  hues  of  horror.    Shall  I  to  the  palace, 
And,  as  the  price  of  my  disclosure,  claim 
I  lis  safety]    No  ! — 'Tis  never  woman's  part 
Out  of  her  fond  misgivings,  to  perplex 
The  fortunes  of  the  man  to  whom  she  cleaves ; 
'Tis  hers  to  weave  all  that  she  has  of  fair 
And  bright  in  the  dark  meshes  of  their  web, 
Inseparate  from  their  windings.    My  poor  heart 
Hatli  found  its  refuge  in  a  hero's  love, 
Whatever  de^'hiy  his  generous  soul 
Shape  for  him; — 'tis  its  duty  to  be  still, 
And  trust  him  till  it  bound  or  break  with  his.        [Exit,  L, 

Scene  III. — A  chamber  in  the  Temple, 
Enter  Medon,  followed  by  Abra,  r. 

Mcdon.  My  daughter  not  within  the  temple,  sayst  thr  u  1 
Abroad  at  such  an  hour  ]    Sure,  not  alone 
She  wandered  :  tell  me  truly,  did  not  Phocion 
Or  Ion  bear  her  company  1    'Twas  Ion — 
Confess — was  it  not  he  ]    I  shall  not  chide, 
Indeed  I  shall  not. 

Abra.  She  went  forth  alone  ; 
But  it  is  true  that  Ion  just  before 
Had  taken  the  same  path. 

Mcdon.  It  was  to  meet  him. 
I  would  they  were  returned :  the  night  is  growi. 
Of  an  unusual  blackness.    Some  one  comes— 
Look  if  it  be  my  daughter. 

Abra  (looking  out  J.  No  :  young  Irus, 
The  little  slave,  whose  pretty  tale  of  grief 
Age  nor,  with  so  gracious  a  respect, 


ACEKX  III.] 


ION. 


66 


This  worning  told  us. 

Aledon.  Let  him  conic  :  he  hears 
Some  message  from  his  mast  er 

Enter  Irus,  l, 

Medon  (to  Irus)  Thou  art  pale  : 
Has  any  evil  happened  to  Agenor  1 

Irus.  No,  my  good  lord  :  I  do  not  come  from  him  : 
I  bear  to  thee  a  scroll  from  one  who  now 
Is  numbered  with  the  dead;  he  was  my  kinsman, 
But  I  had  nevei  seen  him  till  he  lay 
Upon  his  death-bed ;  for  he  left  these  shores 
Long  before  I  was  born,  and  no  one  knew 
His  place  of  exile.    On  this  mournful  day 
He  landed,  was  plague-stricken,  and  expired. 
My  gentle  master  gave  me  leave  to  tend 
His  else  unsolaced  death-bed  ;  when  he  found 
The  clammy  chillness  of  the  grave  steal  on, 
He  called  for  parchment,  and,  with  trembling  hand, 
That  seem'd  to  gather  firmness  from  its  task, 
Wrote  earnestly  ;  conjured  me  take  the  scroll 
Instant  to  thee — and  died.     [Irus  gives  a  vroll  to  Medon, 

Aledon  (reading  the  scroll).  These  are  hi^h  tidings. 
Abra  !  is  not  Clemanthe  come  %    I  long 
To  tell  her  all. 

Enter  Clemanthe. 

Aledon.  Sit  down,  my  pensive  child. 
Abra,  this  boy  is  faint  ■  see  him  refreshed 
With  food  and  wine  before  thou  lett'st  him  pass. 

Irus.  I  have  been  too  long  absent  from  Agenor, 
Who  needs  my  slender  help. 

Aledon.  Nay,  I  will  use 
Thy  master's  firmness  here,  and  use  it  so 
As  he  would  use  it.    Keep  him  prisoner,  Ahra, 
Till  he  has  done  my  bidding.     \Exeiutt  Aim  A  aridliiug,  a 
Now,  Clemanthe, 

Though  thou  hast  play'd  the  truant  and  the  rebel, 
I  will  not  be  too  strict  in  my  award, 
By  keeping  from  thee  news  of  one  to  thee 
Most  dear — nay,  do  not  blush — I  say  most  dear. 
Clem.  It  is  of  Ion  !   No, — I  do  not  blush, 


56 


ION 


[Act  Til 


Rut  tromWo.    O  my  father,  what  of  Ion?  • 

Mr, I  {ow  often  have  we  guessed  his  lineage  nobJe  \ 
A  till  ii6vv  'tis  proved.    The  kinsman  of  that  youth 
Was  with  another  hired  to  murder  him 
A  babe  ; — they  tore  him  from  his  mother's  breast, 
And  to  a  sea-«irt  summit,  where  a  rock 
O'erhuftg  a  chasm,  by  the  surge's  force 
Made  terrible,  rush'd  with  him.    As  the  gods 
In  mercy  ordered  it,  the  foremost  ruffian, 
Who  bore  no  burden,  pressing  through  the  gloom 
In  the  wild  hurry  of  his  guilty  purpose, 
Trod  at  the  extreme  verge  upon  a  crag 
Loosen'd  by  summer  from  its  granite  bed, 
And  suddenly  fell  with  it;  with  his  fall 
Sank  the  base  daring  of  the  man  who  held 
The  infant ;  so  he  placed  the  unconscious  babe 
Upon  the  spot  where  it  was  found  by  me  ; 
Watched  till  he  saw  the  infant  safe;  then  fled, 
Fearful  of  question  ;  and  returned  to  die. 
That  child  is  Ion.    Whom  dost  guess  his  sire  1 
The  first  in  Argos  ! 

Clem.  Dost  thou  mean  Adrastus  1 
He  cannot — must  not — be  that  tyrant's  son! 

Mcdon.  It  is  most  certain.    Nay,  my  thankless  girl, 
He  hath  no  touch  of  his  rash  father's  pride  ; 
For  Nature,  from  whose  genial  lap  he  smiled 
Upon  us  first,  hath  moulded  for  her  own 
The  suppliant  of  her  bounty  ; — thou  art  bless'd  : 
Thus,  1st  me  bid  thee  joy. 

Clem.  Joy,  say st  thou  1 — joy  !  \ 
Then  I  must,  speak — he  seeks  Adrastus'  life  ! 
And  at  th is  moment,  while  we  talk,  may  stain 
His  soul  with  parricide. 

Mcdon,,  Impossible ! 
Ion,  the  gentlest — 

Clem.  It  is  true,  my  father ! 
I  saw  the  weapon  gleaming  in  his  vest ; 
/  heard  him  called  ! 

Mcdon.  Shall  I  alarm  the  palace  ? 

Clem.  No  :  m  the  fierce  confusion,  he  would  fall 
Before  our  tale  could  be  his  safeguard.    Gods  ! 
Is  there  no  hope,  no  refuge  ] 


« 


fCERl.]  ion.  67 

Medon,  Yes,  if  Heaven 
Assist  us.    I  bethink  me  of  a  passage, 
Which,  fashioned  by  a  king  in  pious  zeal. 
That  he  might  seek  the  altar  of  the  god 
m  secret,  from  the  temple's  inmost  shrine 
Leads  to  the  roya'  chamber.    I  have  tracked  it 
In  youth  for  pastime.    Could  I  tread  it  now, 
I  yet  might  save  him. 

CUm.  Oh,  make  haste,  my  father  ! 
Shall  I  attend  thee  % 

Medon.  No  :  thou  would'st  impede 
My  steps : — thou  'rt  fainting  !  when  I  have  lodged  thee  safe 
In  thy  own  chamber,  I  will  light  the  torch 
And  instantly  set  forward. 

Clem.  Do  not  waste 
An  instant's  space  on  me  :  speed,  speed,  my  father! 
The  fatal  moments  fly — I  need  no  aid  ; — 
Thou  seest  I  am  calm,  quite  calm 

Medon.  The  gods  protect  thee  ! 

[Exeunt  Medon  l.,  Clemanthe  r 

END  OF  ACT  III. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. —  The  royal  Chamber. 

Adrastus  on  a  couch  asleep. — Enter  Ion  with  the  knife. 

Ion.  Why  do  I  creep  thus  stealthily  along 
With  trembling  steps  1    Am  I  not  arm'd  by  Heaven 
To  execute  its  mandate  on  a  king 
Whom  it  hath  doom'd  1    And  shall  I  alter  now, 
While  every  moment  that  he  breathes  may  crush 
Some  life  else  happy  ] — Can  I  be  deceived, 
By  some  foul  passion,  crouching  in  my  soul, 
Which  takes  a  radiant  form  to  lure  mo  on  1 
Assure  me,  gods  ! — Yes  ;  I  have  heard  your  voices; 
For  1  dare  pray  ye  .\ow  t(  nerve  my  arm 
And  see  me  strike !  [  He  goes  to  the  couch 


58 


[Act  11 


He's  smiling  in  his  slumber, 

As  if  some  happy  thought  of  innocent  days 

Play'd  at  his  heart-strings  :  must  I  scare  it  the/ice 

With  death's  sharp  agony  ?    He  lies  condemned 

By  the  high  judgment  of  supernal  Powers, 

And  he  shall  know  their  sentence.    Wake,  Adrastui  ! 

Collect  thy  spirits,  and  be  strong  to  die  ! 

Adras.  Who  dares  disturb  my  rest  1  Guards  !  Soldiers  1 
Recreants  ! 

Where  tarry  ye  ?    Why  smite  ye  not  to  earth 

This  bold  intruder  ? — Ha,  no  weapon  here  ! 

What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  ruffian  ?  f Rising 

Ion.  I  am  none, 
But  a  sad  instrument  in  Jove's  great  hand 
To  take  thy  life,  long  forfeited — Prepare  ! 
Thy  hour  is  come  ! 

Adras.  Villains  !  does  no  one  hear  1 

Ion.  Vex  not  the  closing  minutes  of  thy  being 
With  torturing  hope,  or  idle  rage  ;  thy  guards, 
Palsied  with  revelry,  are  scatter'd  senseless, 
While  the  most  valiant  of  our  Argive  youths 
Hold  every  passage  by  which  human  aid 
Could  reach  thee.    Present  death  is  the  award 
Of  Powers  who  watch  above  me,  while  I  stand 
To  execute  their  sentence. 

Adras.  Thou  ! — I  know  thee — 
The  youth  I  spared  this  morning,  in  whose  ear 
I  pour'd  the  secrets  of  my  bosom.    Kill  me, 
If  thou  dar'st  do  it ;  but  bethink  thee,  first, 
How  the  grim  memory  of  thy  thankless  deed 
Will  haunt  thee  to  the  grave  ! 

Ion.  It  is  most  true  ; 
Thou  sparedst  my  life,  an  1  therefore  do  the  gods 
Ordain  me  to-  this  office,  lest  thy  fall 
Seem  the  chance  forfeit  of  some  single  sin,  . 
And  not  the  great  redress  of  Argos.    Mow — 
Now,  while  I  parley — Spirits  that  have  left, 
Within  this  hour,  their  plague-tormented  flesh 
To  rot  untombed,  glide  by,  and  frown  on  me, 
Their  slow  avenger — and  the  chamber  swarms 
With  looks  of  Furies — Yet  a  moment  wait, 


ScEHE  1.] 


ION. 


59 


Ye.  dreadful  prompters  ! — If  there  is  a  friend, 
Whom,  dying,  thou  wouldst  greet  by  word  or  tcken, 
Speak  thy  last  bidding. 

Adras.  I  have  none  on  earth. 
If  thou  nast  courage,  end  me  ! 

Ion.  Not  one  friend  ! 
Most  piteous  doom  ! 

Adras.  Art  melted  1 

Ion.  If  I  am, 
Hope  nothing  from  my  weakness  ;  mortal  arms, 
And  eyes  unseen  that  sleep  not,  gird  us  round, 
And  we  shall  fall  together.    Be  it  so  ! 

Adras.  No ;  strike  at  once  ;  my  hour  is  come  :  in  thee 
I  recognize  the  minister  of  Jove, 

And,  kneeling  thus,  submit  me  to  his  power.         f  Kneels 

Ion.  Avert  thy  face  ! 

Adras.  No  ;  let  me  meet  thy  gaze  ; 
For  breathing  pity  lights  thy  features  up 
Into  more  awful  likeness  of  a  form 
Which  once  shone  on  me  ;  and  which  now  my  seme 
Shapes  palpable — in  habit  of  the  grave, 
Inviting  me  to  the  sad  realm  where  shades 
Of  innocents,  whom  passionate  regard 
Link'd  with  the  guilty,  are  content  to  pace 
With  them  the  margin  of  the  inky  flood 
Mouruful  and  calm  ;  'tis  surely  there  ;  she  waves 
Her  pallid  hand  in  circle  o'er  thy  head, 
As  if  to  bless  thee — and  I  bless  thee  too, 
Death's  gracious  angel ! — Do  not  turn  away. 

Ion.  Gods  !  to  what  office  have  ye  doom'd  me — Now! 

[Ion  raises  Jus  arm  to  stab  Adrastus,  who  is  kneeling, 
and  gazes  steadfastly  upon  him.  The  voice  of  Medon  u 
heard  ivithout,  calling,  "  Ion  !"  "  Ion  !"  Ion  drops  his  arm. 

Adras.  Bo  quick,  or  thou  art  lost ! 

[As  Ion  has  again  raised  his  a^m  to  *trilce% 
Medon  rushes  in  behind  him,  c. 

Medon.  Ion,  forbear. 
Behold  thy  son,  Adrastus  ! 

[Ion  stands  for  a  moment  stupifed  with  horror,  drops  th* 
knife,  and falls  senseless  on  tlie  ground 


60 


ION. 


[Act  Vt 


Ad?  as.  What  strange  words 
Are  tliese,  which  call  my  senses  from  the  death 

They  were  composed  to  welcome'?    Son!  'tis  false  

I  had  but  one — and  the  deep  wave  rolls  o'er  him  ! 

Medon.  That  wave  received,  instead  of  the  fair  nurseling, 
One  of  the  slaves  who  bore  him  fiDm  thy  sight 
In  wicked  haste  to  slay; — I'll  give  thea  proofs. 

Adras.  Great  Jove,  I  thank  thee  ! — raise  him  gently— 
proofs ! 

Are  there  not  here  the  lineaments  of  her 

Who  made  me  happy  once — the  voice,  now  still, 

That  bade  the  long-sealed  fount  of  love  gush  out, 

While  with  a  prince's  constancy  he  came 

To  lay  his  noble  life  down  ;  and  the  sure. 

The  dreadful  proof,  that  he  whose  guilebss  brow 

Is  instinct  with  her  spirit,  stood  above  me, 

Arm'd  for  the  traitor's  deed  ! — It  is  my  child  ! 

[Ion,  reviving,  sinks  on  one  knee  before  Adrastus. 

Ion.  Father!  [Noise without 

Medon.  The  clang  of  arms  ! 

Ion  ( starting  up).  They  come  !  they  come  ! 
They  who  are  leagued  with  me  against  thy  life. 
Here  let  us  fall  ! 

Adras.  I  will  confront  them  yet. 
Within  I  have  a  weapon  which  has  drunk 
A  traitor's  blood  ere  now  ; — there  will  I  wait  them  : 
No  power  less  strong  than  death  shall  part  us  now. 
[Exeunt  Adrastus  and  Ion,  as  into  an  inner  chamber  u.  e.  t 

Medon.  Have  mercy  on  him,  gods,  for  the  dear  sale 
Of  your  most  single-hearted  worshipper! 

Enter  Ctesiphon,  Cassander,  and  others,  L 
Ctcs.  What  treachery  is  this  1 — the  tyrant  fled, 

And  Ion  fled  too  ! — Comrades,  stay  this  dotard. 

While  I  search  yonder  chamber. 
Medon.  Spare  him.  friends, — 

Spare  him  to  clasp  awhile  his  new-found  son; 

Sparc  him  as  Ion's  father! 
Ores.  Father  !  yes — 

That  is  indeed  a  name  to  bid  me  spare  : — 

T*et  me  but  fmd  him,  gods  J  [Rushes  into  an  inner  chamhc* 


ScTJTE  I.J 


ION. 


6 


Medon  (To  Cassander  and  others).  Ha*.,  ye  cut  seen 
What  I  have  seen,  ye  would  have  mercy  on  him 

Crythes  enters  with  Soldiers,  r. 

Ha,  soldiers  !  hasten  to  defend  your  master; 
.That  way — 

[As  Crythes  is  about  to  enter  the  inner  chamber  u.  E.  t, 
Ctesiphon  rushes  from  it  with  a  bloody  dagger,  and  stop* 
(he  ?n. 

Ctcs.    It  is  accomplished  :  the  foul  blot 
Is  wiped  away.  Shade  of  my  murdered  father, 
Look  on  thy  son,  and  smile  ! 

Cry.  Whose  blood  is  that  % 
ft  cannot  be  the  king's ! 

Ctes.  It  cannot  be  ! 
Think'st  thou,  foul  minion  of  a  tyrant's  will, 
He  was  to  crush,  and  thou  to  crawl  for  ever  1 
Look  there,  and  tremble ! 

Cry.  Wretch  !  thy  life  shall  pay 
The  forfeit  of  this  deed. 

[Crythes  and  soldiers  seize  Cte^iphojj, 
Enter  Adrastus  mortally  wounded,  supported  by  I  -  vt  u.  E.  L. 

Adras.  Here  let  me  rest ; — 
In  this  old  chamber  did  my  life  begin, 
And  here  I'll  end  it :  Crythes  !  thou  hast  timed 
Thy  visit  well,  to  bring  thy  soldiers  hither 
To  gaze  upon  my  parting. 

Cry.  To  avenge  thee  ; — 
Here  is  the  traitor! 

Adras.  Set  him  free  at  once  : — 
Why  do  ye  not  obey  me  ?  Ctesiphon, 
I  gave  thee  cause  for  this  ; — believe  me  now 
That  thy  true  steel  has  made  thy  vengeance  sure ; 
And  as  we  now  stand  equal,  I  will  sue 
For  a  small  boon — let  me  not  see  thee  more. 

Ctes  Farewell !  [Exit,  fc 

Adras.  ( To  Crythes  and  soldiers.)  Why  do  ye  tarr* 
here  ? 

Begone ! — still  do  ye  hover  round  my  couch  ? 
If  the  commandment  of  a  dying  king 


62 


ION. 


Is  feeble,  as  a  man  who  has  embraced 

His  child  for  the  first  lime  since  infancy, 

And  presently  must  part  with  him  for  ever, 

I  do  adjure  ye  leave  us  !  [Exeunt  all  but  Ion  and  Adrastus 

Ion.  Oh,  my  father ! 
How  is  it  with  thee  now  1 

Adras.  Well ;  very  well ; — 
Avenging  Fate  hath  spent  its  utmost  force 
Against  me  ;  and  I  gaze  upon  my  s  >r 
With  the  sweet  certainty  that  naught  can  part  ua 
Till  all  is  quiet  here.    How  like  a  dream 
Seems  the  succession  of  my  regal  pomps 
Since  I  embraced  thy  helplessness  !    To  me 
The  interval  hath  been  a  weary  one; 
How  hath  it  passed  with  thee  1 

Ion.  But  that  my  heart 
Hatii  sometimes  ached  for  the  sweet  sense  of  kindn  d, 
I  had  enjoy'd  a  round  of  happy  years 
As  cherish'd  youth  e'er  knew. 

Adras.  I  bless  the  gods 
That  they  have  strewn  along  thy  humble  path 
Delights  unblamed  ;  and  in  this  hour  I  seem 
Even  as  I  had  lived  so  ;  and  I  feel 
That  I  shall  live  in  thee,  unless  that  curse — 
Oh,  if  it  should  survive  me  ! 

Ionl  Think  not  of  it ; 
The  gods  have  shed  such  sweetness  in  this  moment, 
That,  howsoe'er  they  deal  with  me  hereafter, 
I  shall  not  deem  them  angry.    Let  me  call 
For  help  to  staunch  thy  wound ;  thou  art  strong  yet, 
And  yet  may  live  to  bless  me. 

Adras.  Do  not  stir  ; 
My  strength  is  ebbing  fast;  yet,  as  it  leaves  me, 
The  spirit  of  my  stainless  days  of  love 
Awakens;  and  their  images  of  joy, 
Which  at  thy  voice  started  from  blank  oblivion, 
When  thou  wert  strange  to  me,  and  then  half-shown 
Lo'jk'd  sadly  through  the  mist  of  guil::y  years, 
Now  glimmer  on  me  in  the  lovely  lignt 
Which  at  thy  age  they  wore     Thou  art  all  thy  mother's. 
Her  elements  of  gentlest  virtue  cast 
In  mould  heroical. 


Sczhx  I.] 


ION. 


63 


Ion.  Thy  speech  grows  fainter ; 
Can  I  do  nothing  for  thee  ? 

Achas.  Yes  ; — my  son 
Thou  art  the  best,  the  bravest,  of  a  race 
Df  rightful  monarchs;  thou  must  mount  the  throne 
Thy  ancestors  have  fhTd,  and  by  great  deeds 
Efface  the  memory  of  thy  fated  sire, 
A  nd  win  the  blessing  of  the  gods  for  men 
Stricken  for  him.    Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  do  this, 
And  I  shall  die  forgiven. 

Ion.  I  will. 

Aclras.  Rejoice, 
Sufferers  of  Argos  ! — I  am  growing  weak, 
And  my  eyes  dazzle  ;  let  me  rest  my  hands, 
Ere  they  have  lost  their  feeling,  on  thy  head. — 
So  ! — So  ! — thy  hair  is  glossy  to  the  touch 
As  when  I  last  enwreath'd  its  tiny  curl 
About  my  linger  ;  I  did  image  then 
Thy  reign  excelling  mine  ;  it  is  fulfill'd  ; 
And  I  die  happy.    Bless  thee,  King  of  Argos  !        [  Dies 

Ion.  He's  dead  !  and  I  am  fatherless  again. — 
King  did  he  hail  me  ]  shall  I  make  that  word 
A  spell  to  bid  old  happiness  awake, 
Throughout  the  lovely  land  that  father' d  me 
In  my  forsaken  childhood  ] 

[He  sees  the  knife  on  the  ground  and  takes  it  up. 
Most  \rain  dream ! 

This  austere  monitor  hath  bid  thee  vanish 

Ere  half-reveal'd.    Come  back,  thou  truant  steel ; 

Half  of  thy  work  the  gods  absolved  thee  from — 

Th  j  rest  remains  !    Lie  there  !       [He  conceals  the  kijfe  in 

his  vest.    Shouts  heard  icithout. 
The  voice  of  joy  ! 

Is  this  thy  funeral  wailing  1    Oh,  my  father ! 
Mournful  and  brief  will  be  the  heritage 
Thou  leavest  me  ;  yet  I  promised  thee  in  death 
To  grasp  it ; — and  I  will  embrace  it  now. 

Enter  Agenor. 

JLgen.  Does  the  king  live  ? 
Ian.  Alas !  in  me  !    The  son 
Of  him  whow  princely  spirit  is  at  root. 


64 


LA*  I 


Claims  his  ancestral  honours. 

Azen.  That  hisrh  thought 
Anticipates  the  prayer  of  Argos,  roused 
To  sudden  joy.    The  Sages  wait  without 
To  greet  thee  :  wilt  confer  with  them  to-night, 
Or  wait  the  morning  1 

Ion.  Now  ; — the  city's  state 
Allows  the  past  no  sorrow.    I  attend  them.      [Ezcuni,  L 

Scene  II. — Before  the  Gate  of  the  City. 
Phocion  on  guard. 

Pho.  Fool  that  I  was  to  take  this  idle  office, 
At  most  inglorious  distance  from  the  scene 
Which  shall  be  freedom's  birth-place  ;  to  endure 
The  phantasies  of  danger,  which  the  soul 
Uncheer'd  by  action  coldly  dallies  with 
Till  it  begins  to  shiver  !    Long  ere  this, 
If  Ion's  hand  be  firm,  the  deed  is  past, 
And  yet  no  shout  announces  that  the  bonds 
Of  tyranny  are  broken.  [Shouts  at  a  distance. 

Hark  !  'tis  done  ! — 

Enter  Ctesiphon,  l. 

All  hail,  my  brother  freeman  ! — art  not  so  1 — 
Thy  looks  are  haggard — is  the  tyrant  slain? 
Is  liberty  achieved  ! 

Ctts.  The  king  is  dead. 
This  arm — I  bless  the  righteous  Furies! — sle»v  him. 

Pho.  Did  Ion  quail,  then  '? 

Ctcs.  Ion  ! — clothe  thy  speech 
In  phrase  more  courtly  ;  he  is  king  of  Argos. 
Accepted  as  the  tyrant's  son,  and  reigns. 

Pho.  It  cannot  be  ;  I  can  believe  him  born 
Of  such  high  lineage  ;  yet  he  will  not  change 
I  lis  own  rich  treasury  of  unruffled  thoughts 
For  all  the  frigid  glories  that  invest 
The  loveless  state  in  which  the  morarch  dwells, 
A  terror  and  a  slave.  [Shou's.  again 

Ctes.  Dost  hear  that  shout? 
'Tis  raised  for  him  ! — the  craven-hearted  wnrld 
Is  ever  eager  thus  to  hail  a  master, 


*-«TE  II  ] 


ION. 


65 


And  patriots  smite  for  it  in  vain.    Our  Soldiers, 

In  the  gay  recklessness  of  men  who  sport 

With  life  as  with  a  plaything  ;  Citizens, 

On  wretched  beds  gaping  for  show  ;  and  Sages, 

V ain  of  a  royal  sophist,  mad1y  join 

In  humble  prayer  that  he  would  deign  to  tread 

Upon  their  necks  ;  and  he  is  pleased  to  grant  it. 

Pho.  He  shall  not  grant  it !    If  my  life,  my  sense, 
My  heart's  affections,  and  my  tongue's  free  scope 
Wait  the  dominion  of  a  mortal  will, 
What  is  the  sound  to  me,  whether  my  soul 
Bear  "  Ion"  or  "  Adrastus"  burnt  within  it 
As  my  soul's  owner  %    Ion  tyrant  ]    No  ! 
Grant  me  a  moment's  pleading  with  his  heart, 
Which  has  not  known  a  selfish  throb  till  now, 
And  thou  shalt  see  him  smile  this  greatness  from  him. 

Ctcs.  Go  teach  the  eagle  when  in  azure  heaven 
He  upward  darts  to  seize  his  madden'd  prey, 
Shivering  through  the  death-circle  of  its  fear, 
To  pause  and  let  it  'scape,  and  thou  mayst  win 
Man  to  forego  the  sparkling  round  of  power, 
When  it  floats  airily  within  his  grasp  ! 

Pho.  Why  thus  severe  1   Our  nature's  common  wrongj 
Affect  thee  not ;  and  that  which  touch'd  thee  nearly 
Is  well  avenged. 

Ctcs.  Not  while  the  son  of  h;±m 
Who  smote  my  father  reigns  !    I  little  guess'd 
Thou  wouldst  require  a  prompter  to  awake 
The  memory  of  the  oath  so  freshly  sworn, 
Or  of  the  place  assign'd  to  thee  by  lot, 
Should  our  first  champion  fail  to  crush  the  race — 
Mark  me  ! — "the  race"  of  him  my  arm  has  dealt  with 
Now  is  the  time,  the  palace  all  confused, 
A  nd  the  prince  dizzy  with  strange  turns  of  fortune, 
1  o  do  thy  part. 

Pho  Have  mercy  on  my  weakness  ! 
If  thou  hadst  known  this  comrade  of  my  sports, 
One  of  the  same  small  household  whom  his  mirth 
Unfailing  gladden'd  ; — if  a  thousand  times 
Thou  hadst,  by  strong  prosperity  made  thoughtless; 
Touched  his  unfathered  nature  in  its  nerve 


TON. 


[Arr  f. 


Of  agony,  and  felt  no  chiding  glance  ; — 
Hadst  thou  beheld  him  overtax  his  strength 
To  serve  the  wish  his  genial  instinct  guessed, 
Till  his  dim  smile  the  weariness  betrayed, 
Which  it  would  fain  dissemble  ;  hadst  thou  known 
In  sickness  the  sweet  magic  of  his  care, 
Thou  couldst  not  ask  it. — Hear  me,  Ctesiphon  ! 
I  had  a  deadly  fever  once,  and  slaves 
Fled  me  :  he  watched,  and  glided  to  my  bed, 
And  soothed  my  dull  ear  with  discourse  which  grew 
By  nice  degrees  to  ravishment,  till  pain 
Seem'd  an  heroic  sense,  which  made  me  kin 
To  the  great  deeds  he  pictured,  and  the  brood 
Of  dizzy  weakness  flickering  through  the  gloom 
Of  my  small  curtain'd  prison,  caught  the  hues 
Of  beauty  spangling  out  in  glorious  change, 
And  it  became  a  luxury  to  lie 
And  faintly  listen.    Canst  thou  bid  me  slay  him 
Ctcs.  The  deed  be  mine  !    Thou'lt  not  betray  me  1 

[Going, 

Pho.  Hold! 
If  by  our  dreadful  compact  he  must  fall, 
I  will  not  smite  him  with  my  coward  thought 
Winging  a  distant  arm ;  I  will  confront  him 
Arm'd  with  delicious  memories  of  our  youth, 
And  pierce  him  through  them  all. 

Ctcs.  Be  speedy,  then  ! 

Pho.  Fear  not  that  I  shall  prove  a  laggard,  chargeu 
With  weight  of  such  a  purpo.se.    Fate  commands, 
And  I  live  now  but  to  perform  her  bidding. 

[Exeunt  Ctesiphon,  r.  Phocion  j»i 

Scene  III. — A  Terrace  in  the  Garden  of  the  Pclacc— 

moonlight. 

Enter  Ion  and  Agenor,  c. 

Agcn.  Wilt  thou  not  in  to  rest  1 

Ion.  My  rest  is  here — 
Beneath  the  greatness  of  the  heavens,  which  awea 
My  spirit,  tossed  by  sudden  change,  and  torn 
By  various  passions,  to  repose.    YV.  age 


bean:  III.] 


JON. 


67 


Requires  more  genial  nourishment — pray  seek  it — 
I  will  but  stay  thee  to  inquire  once  more 
If  any  symptom  of  returning  health 
Bless  the  wan  city  % 

Agen.  No  :  the  perishing 
Lift  up  their  painful  heads  to  bless  thy  namt, 
And  their  eyes  kindle  as  they  utter  it  ; 
But  still  they  perish. 

Ion.  So  ! — give  instant  order, 
The  rites  which  shall  confirm  me  in  my  throne, 
Be  solemnized  to-morrow. 

Agen.  How  !  so  soon, 
While  the  more  sacred  duties  to  the  dead 
Remain  unpaid  ] 

Ion.  Let  them  abide  my  time — 
They  will  not  tarry  long.    I  see  thee  gaze 
With  wonder  on  me — do  my  bidding  now, 
And  trust  me  till  to-morrow.    Pray  go  in, 
The  niffbt  will  chill  thee  else. 

o 

Agen.  Farewell,  my  lord  !  [Ecit,  n 

Ion.  Now  all  is  stillness  in  my  breast — how  soon 
To  be  displaced  by  more  profound  repose, 
In  which  no  thread  of  consciousness  shall  live 
To  feel  how  calm  it  is  ! — O  lamp  serene, 
DoJ  lift  up  to  thee  undazzled  eyes 
For  the  last  time  1    Shall  I  enjoy  no  more 
Thy  golden  haziness,  which  seemed  akin 
To  my  young  fortune's  dim  felicity  1 
And  when  it  coldly  shall  embrace  the  urn 
That  shall  contain  my  ashes,  will  no  thought 
Of  all  the  sweet  ones  cherish'd  by  thy  beam?. 
Awake  to  tremble  with  them  1    Vain  regret ! 
The  pathway  of  my  duty  lies  in  sunlight. 
And  I  would  tread  it  with  as  firm  a  step, 
Though  it  should  terminate  in  cold  oblivion, 
As  if  Elysian  pleasures  at  its  close 
Gleam'd  palpable  to  sight  as  things  of  earth. 
Who  passes  there  1 

Enter  Phocion,  u.  e.  l.  iclw  strikes  at  Ion  with  a  dagger 

PJio.  This  to  the  king  of  Argos !     [Ion  struggles  with 
him,  seizes  the  dagger,  which  he  throws  away. 


68 


ION. 


[Ac*  IV 


Ion  I  will  not  fall  by  thee,  poor  wavering  novice 
In  the  assassin's  trade  ! — thy  arm  is  feeble. 

[He  confronts  Phocion 
Phocion  ! — Was  this  well  aim'd  1  thou  didst  not  mean-— 

P/io.  I  meant  to  take  thy  life,  urged  by  remembrance 
Of  yesterday's  great  vow. 

Ion.  And  couldst  thou  think 
I  had  forgotten  ] 

Pho.  Thou? 

Ion.  Couldst  thou  believe, 
That  one,  whose  nature  had  been  arm'd  to  stop 
The  life-blood's  current  in  a  fellow's  veins, 
Would  hesitate  when  gentler  duty  turn'd 
His  steel  to  nearer  use  !    To-morrow's  dawn 
Shall  see  me  wield  the  sceptre  of  my  fathers : 
Come,  watch  beside  my  throne,  and,  if  I  fail 
In  sternest  duty  which  my  country  needs, 
My  bosom  will  be  open  to  thy  steel, 
As  now  to  thy  embrace! 

Pho  Thus  let  me  fall 
Low  at  thy  feet,  and  kneeling,  here  receive 
Forgiveness  !  do  not  crush  me  with  more  love 
Than  lies  in  the  word  "  pardon." 

Ion.  And  that  word 
I  will  not  speak  ; — what  have  I  to  forgive  1 
A  devious  fancy,  and  a  muscle  raised 
Obedient  to  its  impulse  !    Dost  thou  think 
The  tracings  of  a  thousand  kindnesses, 
Which  taught  me  all  I  guessed  of  brotherhood, 
Are  in  the  rashness  of  a  moment  lost  ? 

Pho.  I  carnot  look  upon  thee :  let  me  go 
And  lose  myself  in  darkness. 

Ion.  Nay,  old  playmate, 
We  part  not  thus  : — the  duties  of  my  state 
Will  shortly  end  our  fellowship  :  but  spend 
A  few  short  minutes  with  me.    Dost  remerrber 
How  in  a  night  like  this  we  climb'd  yon  walls — 
Two  vagrant  urchins,  and  with  tremulous  joy 
Skimm'd  through  these  statue-border'd  walks,  that  gleam'd 
In  bright  succession  ]    Let  us  tread  them  now  \ 
And  think  we  are  but  older  by  a  day, 


Bern  1.1 


ION. 


69 


And  that  the  pleasant  walk  of  yester-night 
We  are  to-night  retracing.    Come,  my  friend! 
What,  drooping  yet !  thou  wert  not  wont  to  seem 
So  stubborn.    Cheerily,  my  Phocion — come  ! 

[Exeunt,  R 

END  OP  ACT  IF. 
 ♦  

ACT  V. 

Scene  I. —  The  terrace  of-  the  Palace. —  Ti?ne,  the  morning 

of  the  second  day. 

Two  Soldiers  on  guard, 

1  Sol.  A  stirring  season,  comrade  !  our  new  prince 
Has  leap'd  as  eagerly  into  his  seat, 

As  he  had  languished  an  expectant  heir 
Weary  of  nature's  kindness  to  old  age. 
He  was  esteem'd  a  modest  stripling  :  strange 
That  he  should,  with  such  reckless  hurry,  seize 
The  gaudy  shows  of  power  ! 

2  Sol.  'Tis  honest  nature  ; 

The  royal  instinct  was  but  smouldering  in  him, 
And  now  it  blazes  forth.    I  pray  the  gods 
He  may  not  give  us  cause  to  mourn  his  sire. 
1  Sol.  No  more :  he  comes. 

Enter  Ion,  c. 

Ion.  Why  do  ye  loiter  here  ] 
Are  all  the  statues  deck'd  with  festal  wreaths 
As  I  commanded  ] 

1  Sol.  We  have  been  on  guard 
Here,  by  Agenor's  ordei,  since  the  nightfall. 

Ion.  On  guard  !    Well,  hasten  now,  and  see  it  done. 
I  need  no  guards.  .  [Exeunt  Soldiers 

The  awful  hour  draws  near — 
[  am  composed  to  meet  it. — Phocion  comes  : 
He  will  unman  me ;  yet  he  must  not  go, 
Thinking  his  presence  painful. 


70 


ION 


f  Act  ▼ 


Enter  Piioci  )n,  l. 

Friend,  good  morrow ! 

Thou  play'st  the  courtier  early. 

P/io.  Canst  thou  speak 
In  that  old  tone  of  common  cheerfulness 
That  blithely  promises  delightful  ye?irs, 
And  held  thy  mournful  purpose  1 

Ion.  I  have  drawn 
From  the  selectest  fountain  of  repose 
A  blessed  calm : — when  I  lay  down  to  rest, 
I  fear'd  lest  bright  remembrances  of  childhood 
Should  with  untimely  visitation  mock  me ; 
JSut  deep  and  dreamless  have  my  slumbers  been. 
If  sight  of  thee  renews  the  thoughts  of  life 
Too  busily — I  prize  the  love  that  wakes  them. 

Pho.  Oh  !  cherish  them,  and  let  them  plead  w'th  the* 
To  grant  my  prayer, — that  thou  wouldst  live  for  Argos, 
Not  die  for  her ; — thy  gracious  life  shall  win, 
More  than  thy  death,  the  favour  of  the  gods, 
And  charm  the  marble  aspect  of  grim  Fate 
Into  a  blessed  change:  I,  who  am  vow'd, 
And  who  so  late  was  arm'd  Fate's  minister, 
Implore  thee ! 

Ion.  Speak  to  me  no  more  of  life  ! 
There  is  a  dearer  name  I  would  recall — 
Thou  understands  me — 

Enter  Agenor,  l. 

Agen.  Thou  hast  forgot  to  name 
Who  shall  be  bidden  to  this  evening's  feast. 

Ion.  The  feast !  most  true ;  I  had  forgotten  it 
Bid  whom  thou  wilt ;  but  let  there  be  large  store. 
If  our  sad  walls  contain  it,  for  the  wretched 
Whom  hunger  palsies.    It  may  be  few  else 
Will  taste  it  with  a  relish.  [  Exit  Agenor,  l. 

(Ion  resumes  his  address  to  Phocion,  and  continues  it%  bio- 
ken  by  the  interruptions  which  follow.)  I  would  speak 
A  word  of  her  who  y  ester-morning  rose 
Ts  her  light  duties  with  as  blithe  a  heart 
As  ever  yet  its  equal  beating  ver'd 
In  moveless  alabaster; — plighted  now, 


ScEWE  I. 


ION. 


7! 


In  liberal  hour,  to  one  whose  dest  ny 
Shall  freeze  the  sources  of*  enjoyment  in  it, 
And  make  it  heavy  with  the  life-long  pang 
A  widow'd  spirit  bears  !  — 

Enter  Cleon,  l. 

Clcon.  The  heralds  wait 
To  learn  the  hour  at  which  the  solemn  games 
Shall  be  proclaim'd, 

Ion.  The  games  ! — yes,  I  remember 
That  sorrow's  darkest  pageantries  give  place 
To  youth's  robustest  pastimes — Death  and  Life 
Embracing  : — at  the  hour  of  noon. 

Cleon.  The  wrestlers 
Pray  thee  to  crown  the  victor. 

Ion.  If  I  live, 

Their  wish  shall  govern  me.  [Exit  Cleon,  l. 

Could  I  recall 

One  hour,  and  bid  thy  sister  think  of  me 
With  gentle  sorrow,  as  a  playmate  lost, 
I  should  escape  the  guilt  of  having  stopp'd 
The  pulse  of  hope  in  the  most  innocent  soul 
That  ever  passion  ruffled.    Do  not  talk 
Of  me  as  I  shall  seem  to  thy  kind  thoughts, 
But  harshly  as  thou  canst ;  and  if  thou  steal 
From  thy  rich  store  of  popular  eloquence 
Some  bitter  charge  against  the  faith  of  kings, 
'Twill  be  an  honest  treason. 

Enter  Cassander,  r. 
Cass.  Pardon  me,  . 
[f  I  entreat  thee  to  permit  a  few 
Of  thy  once  cherished  friends  to  bid  thee  joy 
Of  that  which  swells  their  pride. 

Ion.  They  ?11  madden  me. — 
Dust  thou  not  see  me  circled  round  with  care 't 
(Jrge  me  no  more.       [As  Cassander  is  going,  Ion  leaves 

Phocion,  and  comes  to  him. 

Come  back,  Cassander  !  see 

How  greatness  frets  the  temper.    Keep  this  ring- 
It  may  remind  thee  of  the  pleasant  hours 
That  we  have  spent  together,  ere  c  lr  fortunes 


72 


ION. 


•  \XCT  9 


Grew  separate  ;  and  with  thy  gracious  speech 

Excuse  me  to  our  friends.  [Exit  Cassandeu,  r 

Pho.  'Tis  time  we  seek 
The  temple. 

Ion.  Phocion  !  mus*-  I  to  the  temple  1 

Pho.  There  sacrificial  rites  must  be  perform/d 
Before  thou  art  enthroned. 

Ion.  Then  I  must  sraze 
On  things  which  will  arouse  the  struggling  thoughts 
1  had  subdued — perchance  may  meet  with  her 
Whose  name  I  dare  not  utter.    I  am  ready.      [Exeunt.  I 

Scene  II. —  The  Temple. 

Clemanthe  and  Abra,  discovered. 

Abra.  Be  comforted,  dear  lady  ; — he  must  come 
To  sacrifice. 

Clem.  Recall  that  churlish  word, 
That  subborn  "  must"  that  bounds  my  living  hopes, 
As  with  an  iron  circle.    He  must  come ! 
How  piteous  is  affection's  state,  that  cleaves 
To  such  a  wretched  prop  !  I  had  flown  to  him 
Long  before  this,  but  that  I  fear'd  my  presence 
Might  prove  a  burthen, — and  he  sends  no  word, 
No  token  that  he  thinks  of  me  1    Art  sure 
That  he  must  come  1    The  hope  has  torture  in  it ; 
Yet  it  is  all  my  bankrupt  heart  hath  left  . 
To  feed  upon. 

Abra.  I  see  him  now  with  Phocion 
Pass  through  the  inner  court. 

Clem.  He  will  not  come 
This  way,  then,  to  the  place  for  sacrifice. 
I  can  endure  no  more ;  speed  to  him,  Abia; 
And  bid  him,  if  he  holds  Clemanthe's  life 
W orthy  a  minute's  los?  to  seek  me  here. 

Abra.  Dear  lady  ! — 

Clem.  Do  not  answer  me,  but  run, 
Or  I  shall  give  yon  crowd  of  sycophants 
To  gaze  upon  my  sorrow.  [Exit  Abra  L. 

It  is  hard ; 

Yet  I  must  strive  to  bear  it,  and  find  solace 


SCIWE  II.] 


ION 


In  that  high  fortune  which  has  made  him  strange 
He  bends  this  way — but  slowly — mournfully. 
O,  he  is  ill ;  how  has  my  slander  wronged  him ! 

Enter  Ion,  l. 

Ion.  What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  lady  1 

Clem.  Is  it  so  1 
Nothing,  my  lord,  save  to  implore  thy  pardon, 
That  the  departing  gleams  of  a  bright  dream, 
From  which  I  scarce  had  waken'd,  made  me  bol<* 
To  crave  a  word  with  thee ; — but  all  are  fled — 
And  I  have  naught  to  seek. 

Ion.  A  goodly  dream  ; 
But  thou  art  right  to  think  it  was  no  more, 
And  study  to  forget  it. 

Clem.  To  forget  it] 
Indeed,  my  lord,  I  cannot  wish  to  lose 
What,  being  past,  is  all  my  future  hath, 
All  I  shall  live  for :  do  not  grudge  me  this, 
The  brief  space  I  shall  need  it. 

Ion.  Speak  not,  fair  one, 
In  tone  so  mournful,  for  it  makes  me  feel 
Too  sensibly  the  hapless  wretch  I  am, 
That  troubled  the  deep  quiet  of  thy  soul 
In  that  pure  fountain  which  reflected  heaven, 
For  a  brief  taste  of  rapture 

Clem.  Dost  thou  yet 
Esteem  it  rapture,  then  1    My  foolish  heart, 
Be  still !    Ye^t  wherefore  should  a  crown  divido  us  ? 
Oh,  my  dear  Ion  !  let  me  call  thee  so 
This  once  at  least — it  could  not  in  my  thoughts 
Increase  the  distance  that  there  was  between  us 
When,  rich  in  spirit,  thou  to  strangers'  eyes 
Seem'd  a  poor  foundling. 

Ion.  It  must  separate  us  ! 
Think  it  no  harmless  ban  hie,  but  a  curse 
Will  freeze  the  current  in  the  veins  of  youth, 
And  from  familiar  touch  of  genial  hand, 
From  household  pleasures  from  sweet  daily  tasks, 
From  airy  thought,  free  wanderer  of  the  heavens, 
For  ever  banish  me  ! 


ION. 


Clem.  Thou  dost  accuse 
Thy  s'ate  too  hardly.    It  may  give  some  room. 
Some  little  space,  amid  its  radiant  folds. 
For  love  to  make  its  nest  in  ! 

Ioji.  Not  for  me  : 
My  pomp  must  be  most  lonesome,  far  removed 
From  that  sweet  fellowship  of  human  kind 
The  slave  rejoices  in  ;  my  solemn  robes 
Shall  wrap  me  as  a  panoply  of  ice, 
And  the  attendants  who  may  throng  around  me 
Shall  want  the  flatteries  which  may  basely  warm 
The  sceptral  thing  they  circle.    Dark  and  cold 
Stretches  the  path,  which,  when  I  wear  the  crown, 
I  needs  must  enter ; — the  great  gods  forbid 
That  thou  should'st  follow  in  it ! 

Clem.  Oh,  unkind ! 
And  shall  we  never  see  each  other  1 

Ion.  ( after  a  pause.)    Yes  ! 
I  have  asked  that  dreadful  question  of  the  hills 
That  look  eternal ;  of  the  flowing  streams 
That  lucid  flow  for  ever ;  of  the  stars, 
Amid  whose  fields  of  azure  my  raised  spirit 
Hath  trod  in  glory  :  all  were  dumb ;  but  now, 
While  I  thus  gaze  upon  thy  living  face, 
[  feel  the  love  that  kindles  through  its  beauty, 
Can  never  wholly  perish  ; — we  shall  meet 
Again,  Clemanthe  ! 

Clem.  Bless  thee  for  that  name  ; 
Call  me  that  name  again  !  thy  words  sound  strangelj 
Yet  they  breathe  kindness.    Shall  we  meet  indeed  1 
Think  not  I  would  intrude  upon  thy  cares, 
Thy  councils,  or  thy  pomps  ; — to  sit  at  distance, 
To  w*?ave,  with  the  nice  labour  which  preserves 
The  rebel  pulses  even,  from  gay  threads 
Faint  records  of  thy  deeds,  and  sometimes  catch 
The  falling  music  of  a  gracious  word, 
Or  the  stray  sunshine  of  a  smile,  will  be 
Comfort  enough  ; — do  not  deny  me  this  j 
Or,  if  stern  fate  compel  thee  to  deny, 
Kill  me  at  once  ! 

Ion.  No  ;  thou  must  live,  ny  fair  one; 


fiCEIfE  III.] 


ION. 


7b 


There  are  a  thousand  joyous  things  in  life, 
Which  pass  unheeded  in  a  life  of  joy 
As  thine  bath  been,  till  breezy  sorrow  comes 
To  ruffle  it ;  and  daily  duties  paid 
Hardly  at  first,  at  length  will  bring  reposo 
To  l he  sad  mind  that  studies  to  perform  lliem. 
Tin  mi  dost  not  mark  me. 
Clem.  Oh,  I  do  !  1  do  ! 

Jon.  If  for  thy  brother's  and  thy  father's  sake 
Thon  art  content  to  live,  the  healer  Time 
Will  reconcile  thee  to  the  lovely  tilings 
Of  this  delightful  world, — and  if  another, 
A  happier — no,  I  cannot  bid  thee  love 
Another ! — I  did  think  I  could  have  said  it, 
But  'tis  in  vain. 

Clem.  Thou  art  mine  own,  then,  still  ? 

Ion.  I  am  thine  own !  thus  let  me  clasp  thee ;  nsarer! 
Oh,  joy  too  thrilling  and  too  short ! 

Enter  Auenor,  R. 

Agon.  My  lord, 
The  sacrificial  rites  await  thy  presence. 

Ion.  I  come. — One  more  embrace — the  last,  the  last 
in  this  world  !   Now  farewell !    [Exeunt  Aoenor  and  Ion. 

Clem.  The  last  embrace  ! 
Then  he  has  cast  me  off'! — No,  'tis  not  so  ; 
'Some  mournful  secret  of  his  fate  divides  us : 
I'll  struggle  to  bear  that,  and  snatch  a  comfort 
From  seeing  him  uplifted.    I  will  look 
Upon  him  on  his  throne;  Minerva's  shrine 
Will  shelter  me  from  vulgar  gaze  :  I'll  hasten, 
Ani  feast  my  sad  eyes  with  his  greatness  there !  [Exit,  R. 

Scene  III. —  Tlie  great  Square  of  the  city, — on  the  l. 
«  throne  of  state  prepared, — on  the  r.  an  altar, — the  statue* 
decorated  with  garlands. 

Enter  Ctesiphon  and  Cassander,  r  3.  e. 
Ctes.  Vex  me  no  more,  by  telling  me,  Cassander, 
Of  his  fair  speech  ;  I  prize  it  at  its  worth  : 
Thou'lt  see  how  he  will  act  when  seated  firm 
Upon  the  throne  the  craven  tyrant  fill'd, 


7«  ion  [Km 

Whose  b  ood  he  boasts,  unless  some  honest  arm 
Should  shed  it  first. 

Oft*.  Hast  thou  forgot  the  time 
When  thou  thyself  wert  eager  to  foretell 
His  manhood's  glory  from  his  childish  virtues  ? 
Let  me  not  think  thee  one  of  those  fond  prophets, 
Who  are  well  pleased  still  to  foretell  success, 
So  it  remain  their  dream. 

Ctes.  Thou  dost  forget 
What  has  chilFd  fancy  and  delight  within  me — 

[Music  at  a  distance 
Hark  ! — servile  trumpets  speak  his  coming — watch, 
How  power  will  change  him.  [  Tlicy  stand  aside. 

The  Procession.  Enter  u.  e.  r.  Medon,  Agenor,  Pho- 
cion,  Timocles,  Cleon,  Sages  and  People — Ion  last  in 
royal  robes.    He  advances  a/nidst  shouts. 

Ion.  I  thank  you  for  your  greeting — Shout  no  more. 
But  in  deep  silence  raise  your  hearts  to  Heaven, 
That  it  may  strengthen  one  so  young  and  frail 
As  I  am,  for  the  business  of  this  hour. 
Must  I  sit  here  1 

Medon.  Permit  thy  earliest  friend, 
Who  has  so  often  propp'd  thy  tottering  steps, 
To  lead  thee  to  thy  throne, — and  thus  fulfil 
His  fondest  vision. 

Ion.  Thou  art  still  most  kind — 

Medon.  Nay,  do  not  think  of  me — my  son  !  my  son  , 
What  ails  thee  1    When  thou  should'st  reflect  the  jcy 
Of  Argos,  the  strange  paleness  of  the  grave 
Marbles  thy  face. 

Ion.  Am  I  indeed  so  pale  1 
It  is  a  solemn  office  1  assume ; 
Yet  thus,  with  Phoebus'  blessing,  I  embrace  it. 

[Sits  on  tae  throw 

Stand  forth,  Agenor ! 

Agen.  I  await  thy  will. 

Ion.  To  thee  I  look  as  to  the  wisest  friend 
Of  this  afflicted  people — thou  must  leave 
Awhile  the  quiet  which  thy  life  hath  earn'd, 
To  rule  our  councils ;  fill  the  seats  of  justice 


8  xffz  III.] 


ION. 


With  good  men — not  s  >  absolute  in  goodness,  * 

As  to  forget  what  human  frailty  is ; — 
And  order  my  sad  country. 
A  gen.  Pardon  mc —  . 

Ion..  Nay,  I  will  promise  'tis  my  last  request: 
Thou  never  eouldst  deny  me  what,  1  sought 
fn  boyish  wantonness,  and  shalt  not  grudge 
Thy  wisdom  to  me,  till  our  state  revive 
From  its  long  anguish  ; — it  will  not  be  long 
If  Heaven  approve  me  here.    Thou  hast  all  powei 
Whether  I  live  or  die. 

Agcn.  Die  !  I  am  old — 

Ion.  Death  is  not  jealous  of  thy  mild  decay, 
Which  gently  wins  thee  his  ;  exulting  Youth 
Provokes  the  ghastly  monarch's  sudden  stride, 
And  makes  his  horrid  fingers  quick  to  clasp 
His  shivering  prey  at  noontide.    Let  me  see 
The  captain  of  the  guard. 

Cry.  I  kneel  to  crave 
Humbly  the  favour  which  thy  sire  bestow'd 
On  one  who  loved  him  well. 

Ion.  I  cannot  thank  thee,  , 
That  wakest  the  memory  of  my  father's  weakness  ; 
But  I  will  not  forget  that  thou  hast  shared 
The  light  enjoyments  of  a  noble  spirit, 
And  learned  the  need  of  luxury.    I  grant 
For  thee  and  thy  brave  comrades,  ample  share 
Of  such  rich  treasures  as  my  stores  contain, 
To  grace  thy  passage  to  some  distant  land, 
Where,  if  an  honest  cause  engage  thy  sword, 
May  glorious  laurels  wreath  it !    In  our  realm, 
We  shall  not  need  it  longer. 

Cry.  Dost  intend 
To  banish  the  firm  troops  before  whose  valour 
Caibarian  millions  shrink  appall'd,  and  leave 
Our  city  naked  to  One  first  assault 
Of  reckless  foes  ? 

Ion.  No,  Crythes  ! — in  ourselves, 
In  our  own  honest  hearts  and  chainless  hands 
Will  be  our  safeguard; — while  we  seek  no  use 
Of  arras  we  would  not  have  our  children  blend 


78 


rcri. 


With  their  first  innocent  wishes;  while  the  lcn?e 

Of  Argos  and  of  justice- shall  be  one 

To  their  youiig  reason  ;  while  their  sinews  grow 

Firm  'midst  the  gladness  of  heroic  sports, — 

We  shall  not.  ask,  to  guard  our  country's  peace, 

One  selfish  passion,  or,  one  venal  sword. 

1  would  not  grieve  thee; — but  thy  valiant  troop— 

For  I  esteem  them  valiant — must  no  more, 

With  luxury  which  suits  a  desperate  camp, 

Infect  us.    See  that  they  embark,  Agenor, 

Ere  night. 

Qry.'  My  lord— 

Jon.  No  more — ray  word  hath  pass'd. 
Medon,  there  is  no  office  I  can  add 
To  those  thou  hast,  grown  old  in  ; — thou  wilt  guard 
The  shrine  of  Phoebus,  and  within  thy  home — 
Thy  too  delightful  home — befriend  the  stranger 
As  thou  didst  me  ; — there  sometimes  waste  a  though? 
On  thy  spoil'd  inmate ! 

Medon.  Think  of  thee,  ray  lord  1 
Long  shall  we  triumph  in  thy  glorious  reign — 

Ion   piithee  no  more.    Argivcs  !  I  have  a  boon 
To  crave  of  you  ; — whene'er  I  shall  rejoin 
[n  death  the  father  from  whose  heart  in  life 
Stern  fate  divided  me,  think  gently  of  him! 
For  ye,  who  saw  him  in  his  full-blown  pride, 
Knew  little  of  affections  crush'd  within, 
And  wrongs  which  frenzied  him  ;  yet  nevermore 
Let  the  great  interests  of  the  state  depend 
Upon  the  thousand  chances  that  may  sway 
A  piece  of  human  frailty  !    Swear  to  me 
That  ye  will  seek  hereafter  in  yourselves 
The  means  of  sovereign  rule  : — our  narrow  space, 
So  happy  in  its  confines,  so  compact, 
Needs  not  the  magic  of  a  single  name 
Which  wider  regions  may  require  to  draw 
Their  interests  into  one  ;  but,  circled  thus, 
Like  a  bless'd  family  by  simple  laws, 
May  tenderly  be  governed  ;  all  degrees 
Moulded  together  as  a  single  form 
Of  nymph  like  loveliness,  which  finest  chords 


SctJE  III.] 


79 


Of  sympatliy  pervading  shall  suffuse 

In  times  of  quiet  with  one  bloom,  and  fill 

With  one  iesistless  impulse,  if  tlio  hosts 

Of  foreign  power  should  threaten.    Swear  to  me 

That  ye  will  do  this  ! 

Mednn.  Wherefore  ask  this  now? 
Thou  shall  live  long !    The  paleness  of  thy  face 
Which  late  appalled  me,  is  grown  radiant  iuw, 
And  thine  eyes  kindle  with  the  prophecy 
Of  lustrous  years. 

Ion.  The  gods  approve  me,  then  ! 
Yet  will  I  use  the  function  of  a  king, 
And  claim  obedience.    Promise,  if  I  leave 
No  issue,  that  the  sovereign  power  shall  live 
In  the  affections  of  the  general  heart, 
And  in  the  wisdom  of  the  best. 

Medon  and  others  (kneeling).  We  swear  it! 

Ton.  Hear  and  record  the  oath,  immortal  powers  ! 
Now  give  me  leave  a  moment  to  approach 
That  altar,  unattended.  [He  goes  to  l7ie  altar. 

(i  racious  gods  ! 

In  whose  mild  service  my  glad  youth  was  spent,, 
Look  on  me  now ;  and  if  there  is  a  Power, — 
As  at  this  solemn  time  I  feel  there  is, — 
Beyond  ye,  that  hath  breathed  through  all  your  shapes 
The  spirit  of  the  beautiful  that  lives 
In  earth  and  heaven  : — to  ye  I  offer  up 
This  conscious  being,  full  of  life  and  love, 
For  my  dear  country's  welfare.    Let  this  blow 
End  all  her  sorrows  !       [Stubs  himself  and  fcuVo.  Ctesi* 

phon  rushes  to  sup\  art  him. 

Otesiphon,  thou  ait 
Avenged,  and  wilt  forgive  me. 

Ctes.  Thou  hast  phick'd 
TI*3  peer  disguise  of  hatred,  from  my  soul, 
And  made  me  IV. el  how  shallow  is  the  w'jih 
01  vengeance     Coull  I  die;  to  sai'e  thee  ! 

Ci.E»nrrniE  lushes  j Wward. 

Clem,  Hold! 
iT*ist  me  support  him  •  stand  avvaj  !  indeed 


8C 


ION. 


|  Act  V 


T  have  beat  right,  although  ye  knew  it  rtft, 
To  ol in ^  to  him  in  death. 

Ion.  This  is  a  joy 
I  did  not  hope  foi — this  is  sweet  indeed  ! 
Bend  thine  eyes  on  me  ! 

Clem.  And  for  this  it  was 
Thou  wouldst  have  weaned  me  from  thee?    Co  ilist  llici 
think 

I  would  he  so  divorced  ] 

Ion..  Thou  art  right,  Clemanthe  : 
It  was  a  shallow  and  an  idle  thought — 
'Tis  past !    No  show  of  coldness  frets  us  now, 
No  vain  disguise,  my  love.    Yet  thou  wilt  think 
On  that,  which,  when  I  feign'd,  I  truly  said — 
Wilt  thou  not,  sweet  one  1 

Clem.  I  will  treasure  all. 

Enter  Iitus,  l. 

Jrus.  I  bring  you  glorious  tidings — Ha!  no  joy 
Can  enter  here. 

Ion.  Yes — is  it  as  I  hope  ? 

Irus.  The  pestilence  abates. 

Ion  ( springs  on  kis  feet ).  Do  ye  not  hear  ? 
Why  shout  ye  not  % — ye  are  strong — think  not  of  me 
Hearken  !  the  curse  my  ancestry  had  spread 
O'er  Argos,  is  dispelled — Agonor,  give 
This  gentle  youth  his  freedom,  who  hath  brought 
Sweet  tidings  that  I  shall  not  die  in  vain  ! — 
And  Me  don  !  cherish  him  as  thou  hast  one 
Who,  dying,  blesses  thee  ; — -my  oaui  Clemantho! 
Let  this  console  thee  nlso — Argos  lives— 
Tins  ofl'eiuig  i«  accepted — all  is  well !  I  IHs* 


TU  Obtain  FM$. 


THE  MINOE  DEAMA. 


VOL  I. 

1.  The  Irish  Attorney. 

2.  Boots  at  the  Swan. 

3.  How  to  Pay  the  Rent. 

4.  The  Loan  of  a  Lover. 

5.  The  Dead  Shot. 

6.  His  Last  Legs. 

7.  The  Invisible  Prince. 

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10.  Used  Up. 

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13.  Luke  the  Laborer. 

14.  Beauty  and  the  Beast. 

15.  St.  Patrick's  Eve. 

16.  Captain  of  the  Watch. 

With  a  Portrait  and  Memoir  of 
MISS  C  WEMYSS. 


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17.  The  Secret. 

18.  White  Horse  of  the  Peppers. 

19.  The  Jacobite. 

20.  The  Bottle. 

21.  Box  and  Cox. 

22.  Bamboozling. 

23.  Widow's  Victim. 

24.  Rrbert  Macaire. 
With  a  Portrait  and  Memoir  of 

MR.  F.  S.  CHANFRAU 

VOL.  IV. 

25.  Secret  Service. 

26.  Omnibus. 

27.  Irish  Lion. 

28.  Maid  of  Croissey. 

29.  The  Old  Guard. 

30.  Raising  the  Wind. 

31.  Slasher  and  Crasi 

32.  Naval  Engagemeu. 
With  a  Portrait   ana  Memoir  of 

MISS  ROSE  TELBIN. 

VOL  V. 

33.  Cocknies  in  California. 

34.  Who  Speaks  First. 
3.",.  Bombastes  Furioso. 
36.  Macbeth  Travestie. 

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39.  The  Weathercock. 

40.  All  that  Glitters  is  not  Gold. 
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41.  Grimshaw,  Bagshaw  and  Brad- 
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44.  Two  Bonnycastles. 

45.  Born  to  Good  Luck. 

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50.  St.  Cupid. 

51.  Go-to  bed  Tom. 

52.  The  Lawyers. 

53.  Jack  Sheppard. 
54  The  Toodles. 
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66.  Ladies  Beware. 

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The  scene  is  laid  in  Ireland,  about  the  Fifteenth  Century . 
The  characters  that  figure  in  the  Play  are  :  James  Lynch 
FrrzsTEPHEN,  Mayor  of  Gal  way  ;  Walter  Lynch,  his  Son  ; 
Blake  of  the  Hills,  Brother-in-law  of  Lynch  ;  Arthur, 
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a  young  Spaniard;  Citizens,  Officers,  Gentlemen,  Sailors, 
&c,  &c  ;  Dame  Margaret,  wife  of  Lynr  . ;  Agnes,  the 
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